^MASTERPIECES 


OF 


UC-NRLF 


MASTERPIECES 

OF  THE 
SOUTHERN  POETS 


MASTERPIECES 

OF  THE 

SOUTHERN  POETS 

BY 

WALTER  NEALE 

Author  of  "The  Sovereignty  of  the  States,"  "The  Betrayal," 
written  in  collaboration  with  Elizabeth  H.  Hancock,  etc. 
Editor  of  Neale's  Monthly,  Neale^s  Enay  Magazine,  Neale's 
Quarterly  Series  of  the  World? i  Great  Short  Stories,  etc., 
and  President  of  The  Neale  Publishing  Company 


NEW  YORK 

THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
1912 


Copyright,  1912,  by 
THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


NOTICE  OF  COPYRIGHT 

The  poems  of  all  living  authors  that  are  contained  in 
this    volume,    and    all    the    other    poems    in    which    copy- 
right exists,  are  here  published  under  proper  authority, 
conferred  by  the  author,  or  by  the  original  publisher,  or 
by  some  other  holder  of  the  copyright,  and  all  rights  in 
such  poems  are  reserved  to  the  person  or  persons,  firms 
or  corporations,  that  have  so  kindly  permitted  their  use 
in   this  work.     Special  notices   of   copyright,   credits,   of 
acknowledgments    follow.     The   "  author "   to   whom   ref- 
erence is  made  in  this  notice  of  copyright  is  the  author 
of  the  poem  or  poems   here  mentioned. 
Boner,   John   Henry. —  From   "  Poems,"   by   John   Henry 
Boner;    illustrated   by    A.    G.    Heaton.     New    York: 
The    Neale    Publishing    Company.     Copyright,    1903, 
by  Lottie  A.  Boner. 

Bruce,  Philip  Alexander. —  First  published  in  the  Rich- 
mond Times-Dispatch,  and  used  here  by  permission 
of  the  author. 

Cawein,  Madison  Julius. — "  Attributes,"  from  "  New 
Poems,"  by  Madison  Cawein.  London:  Grant  Rich- 
ards. All  rights  reserved.  "  Beautiful-Bosomed,  O 
Night "  and  "  Hymn  to  Spiritual  Desire,"  from 
"  Poems,"  by  Madison  Cawein.  New  York :  The  Mac- 
millan  Company.  Copyright,  1911,  by  The  Macmil- 
lan  Company,  and  published  here  by  special  permis- 
sion of  the  publishers  and  of  the  author. 
Crockett,  Ingram. —  From  "  The  Magic  of  the  Woods  and 
Other  Poems,"  by  Ingram  Crockett.  Copyright,  1908, 
by  Ingram  Crockett. 

253791 


6  NOTICE  OF  COPYRIGHT 

Dandridge,  Danske. —  From  "  Joy,  and  Other  Poems," 
by  Danske  Dandridge.  Copyright,  1909,  by  Danske 
Dandridge. 

Fenollosa,  Mary  McNeil. —  From  various  sources.  Special 
permission  to  publish  in  this  volume  conferred  by 
the  author. 

Gordon,  Armistead  Churchill. —  From  "The  Ivory  Gate," 
by  Armistead  Churchill  Gordon.  New  York:  The 
Neale  Publishing  Company.  Copyright,  1907,  by  The 
Neale  Publishing  Company. 

Gordon,  James  Lindsay. —  From  "  Ballads  of  the  Sunlit 
Years,"  by  James  Lindsay  Gordon.  By  permission 
of  Armistead  Churchill  Gordon,  the  late  James  Lind- 
say Gordon's  brother,  and  the  representative  of  his 
estate. 

Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton. —  From  various  sources,  approved 
by  William  Hamilton  Hayne,  who  has  permitted  the 
use  of  his  late  father's  poems  in  this  volume. 

Hayne,  William  Hamilton. —  From  various  sources,  from 
copy  approved  by  the  author,  who  has  permitted  the 
publication  in  this  volume  of  his  poems  here  given. 

Hope,  James  Barron. —  From  "  A  Wreath  of  Virginia 
Bay  Leaves;  Poems  by  James  Barron  Hope,"  selected 
and  edited  by  his  daughter,  Janey  Hope  Marr.  Copy- 
right, 1895,  by  Janey  Hope  Marr. 

Hubner,  Charles  W. —  From  "  Poems,"  by  Charles  W. 
Hubner.  New  York :  The  Neale  Publishing  Company. 
Copyright,  1906,  by  The  Neale  Publishing  Company. 

Lanier,  Sidney. — "  A  Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master," 
from  the  Independent;  "  An  Evening  Song,"  from 
Lippincott's  Magazine;  "  Song1  of  the  Chattahoochee," 
Seott's  Magazine;  "  Sunrise,"  from  the  Independent; 
"  The  Marshes  of  Glynn,"  from  "  The  Masque  of 


NOTICE  OF  COPYRIGHT 


Poets,"  and  all  these  poems  are  contained  in  "  The 
Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier,"  compiled  by  Mary  D. 
Lanier.  Copyright,  1884,  1891,  by  Mary  D.  Lanier, 
and  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York. 

McNeill,  John  Charles. —  From  "  Songs,  Merry  and  Sad," 
by  John  Charles  McNeill.  Copyright,  1906,  by  John 
Charles  McNeill. 

Malone,  Walter. — "  October  in  Tennessee,"  from  "  Poems," 
by  Walter  Malone.  Copyright,  1904,  by  Walter  Ma- 
lone  ;  "  Opportunity,"  from  "  Songs  of  East  and  West," 
by  Walter  Malone.  Copyright,  1906,  by  Walter  Ma- 
lone. 

Morris,  Ida  Goldsmith. — "  Adrift,"  from  Scribner's  Maga- 
zine; "  Childless,"  from  copy  supplied  by  the  author ; 
"  That  Little  Chap  of  Mine,"  from  the  Atlanta  Con- 
stitution; "  Israel,"  from  copy  supplied  by  the  author; 
"  Remembrance,"  from  the  National  Magazine. 

Peck,  Samuel  Minturn. —  From  "Cap  and  Bells,"  by  Sam- 
uel Minturn  Peck.  Copyright,  1886,  by  White,  Stokes 
&  Allen. 

Spalding,  John  Lancaster. —  From  "  God  and  the  Soul,"  by 
John  Lancaster  Spalding,  in  whom  the  copyright  is 
vested,  and  by  whose  permission  his  poems  published 
in  this  volume  are  here  given. 

Stockard,  Henry  Jerome. —  From  "Fugitive  Lines,"  by 
Henry  Jerome  Stockard.  Copyright,  1897,  by  Henry 
Jerome  Stockard. 

Tabb,  John  Banister. —  From  "  Poems,"  by  John  Banister 
Tabb.  Copyright,  1894,  by  Copeland  &  Day,  and  now 
published  by  Small,  Maynard  &  Company,  Boston. 

Ticknor,  Francis  Orray. — "  The  Poems  of  Francis  Orray 
Ticknor,"  edited  and  collated  by  his  granddaughter, 
Michelle  Cutliff  Ticknor.  New  York:  The  Neale 


8  NOTICE  OF  COPYRIGHT 

Publishing  Company.  Copyright,  1911,  by  The  Neale 
Publishing  Company. 

Troubetzkoy,  Amelie  Rives. — "  A  Mood,"  copyright,  1887, 
by  Harper  &  Brothers ;  "  Before  the  Rain  "  and  "  A 
Sonnet/'  copyright,  1887,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 
These  poems  were  originally  published  in  the  Harper 
magazines. 

Tucker,  Beverley  Dandridge. — From  "My  Three  Loves," 
by  Beverley  Dandridge  Tucker.  New  York:  The 
Neale  Publishing  Company.  Copyright,  1910,  by  The 
Neale  Publishing  Company. 

Wallis,  Severn  Teackle. —  From  "  The  Writings  of  Severn 
Teackle  Wallis;  Memorial  Edition;  Vol.  I,  Addresses 
and  Poems." 

Weeden,  Howard. —  From  "  Bandanna  Ballads,"  by  How- 
ard Weeden.  New  York:  Doubleday  Page  &  Com- 
pany. By  permission  of  Miss  Kate  Weeden,  the  late 
Miss  Howard  Weeden's  sister. 

Wyeth,  John  Allan. — "  My  Sweetheart's  Face,"  from 
Harper's  Magazine;  "  To  My  Mother,"  from  the  Cen- 
tury Magazine,  and  later  published  in  "  My  Sweet- 
heart's Face  and  Other  Poems,"  by  John  Allan  Wyeth. 

Young,  Martha. —  From  the   Century  Magazine. 

THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 


PREFACE 

This  volume  is  not  meant  to  be  a  comprehensive  an- 
thology of  Southern  verse.  Literary  milestones,  which 
mark  the  progress  of  Southern  poetry  along  the  highway 
that  leads  to  the  kingdoms  where  Poe,  Lanier,  and  their 
worthy  successors  are  enthroned,  properly  belong  to  the 
Southern  anthologies  that  are  museums  of  history.  This 
work  is  meant  to  comprise  mainly  selections  from  those 
lyric  masterpieces  of  the  Southern  poets  that  are  a  part 
of  the  living  literature  of  the  world. 

Southerners  began  to  write  poetry  soon  after  they 
reached  the  Land  of  Song.  Captain  John  Smith  brought 
several  persons  that  were  destined  to  be  Southern  poets 
along  with  him  to  Virginia.  Indeed,  his  own  verse  was 
excellent,  and  even  admirable,  for  the  period,  and  shows 
that  extraordinary  man  to  have  been  a  student  of  prosody. 
The  poems  of  these  earlier  poets  are  given  in  various 
histories  of  literature. 

While  preparing  this  volume  I  read  the  greater  part 
of  the  verse  of  more  than  one  thousand  Southern  writers. 
That  no  great  poem  might  be  overlooked,  I  wrote  to  all 
the  editors  and  to  all  the  booksellers  of  the  South,  and 
to  many  Southern  authors,  asking  them  to  give  to  me 
the  names  of  all  the  Southern  poets  of  whom  they  had 
ever  heard.  This  they  nearly  all  did.  Consequently  there 
are  poems  in  this  compilation  that  are  to  be  found  in  no 

9 


10  PREFACE 


other  anthology,  and  great  poets,  inadequately  represented 
in  other  works,  if  at  all,  are  here  given  considerable  space. 

Let  him  who  would  take  me  to  task  for  affirming  that 
Poe  and  Lanier  were  succeeded  by  poets  worthy  of  them 
have  a  care.  While  it  is  true  that  Poe  was  greater  than 
any  of  the  Southern  poets  of  the  two  centuries  that  im- 
mediately preceded  him,  he  was  followed  by  Lanier,  who 
was  Poe's  inferior  at  no  point.  If  the  days  allotted  to 
ordinary  mortals  had  been  vouchsafed  Lanier  he  would 
still  be  alive.  To  his  generation  belong  other  great 
Southern  poets, —  John  Banister  Tabb,  Will  Henry  Thomp- 
son, and  John  Lancaster  Spalding,  for  example, —  while 
Henry  Timrod,  Theodore  O'Hara,  and  Paul  Hamilton 
Hayne  were  among  the  older  poets  of  the  period.  Now 
there  is  a  new  generation  of  Southern  poets,  several  of 
whom  bid  fair  to  be  Lanier's  worthy  successors, —  nay, 
even  now  they  are  very  great  poets,  and  in  their  day  may 
scale  the  loftiest  peak  of  Parnassus.  The  poems  of  the 
late  John  Charles  McNeill,  who  died  a  few  years  ago  at 
the  unripe  age  of  thirty-three,  are  destined  to  live  so  long 
as  American  literature  shall  endure.  Another  North 
Carolinian,  the  late  John  Henry  Boner,  after  many  years 
of  suffering,  was  cut  off  in  his  prime  a  few  years  ago. 
But  his  poems  will  live. 

Among  the  living  Southern  poets  are  several  that  I  feel 
impelled  to  single  out  for  particular  mention.  From  them 
the  world  may  expect  great  riches.  I  refer  to  Amelie 
Rives  Troubetzkoy,  Samuel  Minturn  Peck,  Mary  McNeil 
Fenollosa,  Danske  Dandridge,  Madison  Julius  Cawein, 
Ingram  Crockett,  and  Ida  Goldsmith  Morris.  There  is 


PREFACE  11 


still  another  great  young  Southern  poet,  Olive  Tilford 
Dargan,  who  is  entitled  to  a  place  among  the  world's  great 
poets.  As  her  masterpieces  are  dramas,  which  are  too 
long  for  use  in  this  volume,  in  which  poems  are  given 
only  as  a  whole,  no  selection  from  her  works  is  to  be 
found  here.  But  her  dramas,  which  are  published  as 
books,  are  easily  obtainable.  There  are  other  living 
Southern  poets  that  I  might  especially  mention, —  such  as 
Armistead  Churchill  Gordon,  Beverley  Dandridge  Tucker, 
William  Hamilton  Hayne,  and  others, —  but  I  shall  let 
their  own  fine  poems  speak  for  them. 

Although  Lanier  has  been  dead  more  than  thirty  years, 
and  no  copyright  has  ever  existed  in  many  of  his  poems, 
his  poetical  works  were  collated  by  his  widow  a  few  years 
ago,  then  published  by  Messrs.  Charles  Scribners  Sons, 
from  which  house  she  receives  a  royalty.  Therefore, 
while  this  volume  contains  all  the  greater  poems  of  Poe, 
as  there  seems  to  be  no  one  to  claim  any  royalty  on  the 
publication  of  his  works,  in  which  no  copyright  now  exists, 
Lanier  is  not  so  well  represented.  But  I  have  been  sorely 
tempted  to  publish  in  this  work  by  far  the  greater  part  of 
gentle  Sidney's  superb  creations. 

Here,  for  the  first  time,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  the  poems 
of  Thomas  Jefferson  are  given  a  place  in  any  anthology. 
Yet  he  wrote  poetry  that  lives  and  that  is  widely  read  in 
our  day.  He  also  wrote  "  a  really  admirable  treatise  on 
the  subject,"  says  Paul  Leland  Haworth,  in  The  Book- 
man for  August,  1910,  the  treatise  being  entitled 
"  Thoughts  on  English  Prosody :  An  Essay  on  the  Art  of 
Poesy,"  in  which  "  he  took  the  now  accepted  view  that 


,18  PREFACE 


accent  is  the  basis  of  English  verse,  and  vigorously  com- 
bated Dr.  Johnson  and  others  who  l  have  taken  quantity 
for-  their  basis  and  have  mounted  English  poetry  on 
Greek  and  Latin  feet/  " 

Continuing,  Haworth  says  that  Jefferson  doubtless  had 
written  "Lovely  Peggy"  at  the  time.  "Of  this  poem, 
strange  to  say,  very  little  is  known.  Just  when,  why,  or 
about  whom  it  was  written,  is  uncertain."  He  then  says 
that  the  poem  is  not  given  in  either  Washington's  or 
Ford's  edition  of  Jefferson's  writings,  and  that  he  had 
been  unable  to  find  it  mentioned  in  any  life  of  the  Sage. 
"  Neither  William  E.  Curtis  nor  Thomas  Watson,  his  most 
recent  biographers,  had  ever  heard  of  it  until  I  called 
their  attention  to  it.  The  latter  was  inclined  to  question 
its  authenticity  until  I  sent  him  a  facsimile  of  the  original, 
which  is  now  in  the  Dreer  Collection  in  the  library  of 
the  Historical  Society  of  Pennsylvania.  Possibly  Jeffer- 
son may  have  merely  copied  the  poem,  as  Worthington  C. 
Ford,  the  court  of  last  appeals  in  such  matters,  suggests; 
but  if  he  did,  who  was  the  author  ?  " 

But  Paul  Leicester  Ford  evidently  knew  a  great  deal 
about  "  Lovely  Peggy," —  so  much,  in  fact,  that  I  do  not 
wonder  that  Worthington  C.  Ford  should  have  suggested 
to  Haworth  that  Jefferson  "  may  have  merely  copied  the 
poem," —  for  Haworth  goes  on  to  say,  "  Evidently  Paul 
Leicester  Ford,  editor  of  the  best  edition  of  Jefferson's 
writings,  recognized  its  merits,  for  I  feel  sure  that  while 
writing  '  Janice  Meredith '  he  took  it  as  his  model  for 
'  Concerning  Thalia.'  Not  only  are  the  meter  and  most 
of  the  rhymes  identical,  but  Ford  incorporated  some  of 


PREFACE  13 

Jefferson's  lines  almost  entire.     Take,  for  example,  Ford's 
stanza : 

" '  To  gaze  on  her  is  sweet  delight ; 

" '  'Tis  heaven  whene'er  she's  in  my  sight, 

" '  But  when   she's   gone,   'tis   endless   night  — 

"'All's  dark  without  my  Thalia/ 
"  Compare  this  with  the  fifth  stanza  of  '  Lovely  Peggy ' 
and  all  doubt  vanishes.  We  must  not,  however,  accuse 
Ford  of  plagiarism.  Rather,  we  should  praise  his  poetic 
and  historical  discrimination.  He  wished  to  put  a  poem 
in  the  mouth  of  his  hero,  and  what  could  be  better  than 
to  model  such  a  poem  after  one  written  by  an  actual  per- 
sonage in  the  period  in  which  the  romance  falls  ?  " 

I  am  unable  to  see  how  Haworth  could  have  thus 
justified  Ford's  use  of  Jefferson's  masterpiece,  without 
credit  to  Jefferson,  in  a  footnote,  or  elsewhere. 

Various  conflicting  statements  with  regard  to  the  au- 
thorship of  the  poem  have  been  published.     Some  of  these, 
I   found  on  investigation,  were  rashly  made  by  "  near " 
^authorities.     I    have    no    reason   to    doubt    that    "Lovely 
Peggy "  was  written  by  Thomas  Jefferson. 

WALTER  NEALE. 
NEW  YORK,  OCTOBER  8,  1912. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BONER,  JOHN  HENRY  (North  Carolina:  1845-1003)  23 

Gather  Leaves  and  Grasses 23 

Remembrance 24 

The  Moon-Loved  Land 25 

The  Sweet  Little  Fool 26 

BRADENBAUGII,  CHARLES  (Maryland:  18 )  .  .  28 

The  Cavalier's  Serenade 28 

BRUCE,  PHILIP  ALEXANDER  (Virginia:  1856 )  .  30 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  30 

CAWEIN,  MADISON  JULIUS  (Kentucky:  1865 )  .  31 

Attributes 31 

Beautiful-Bosomed,  O  Night 32 

Hymn  to  Spiritual  Desire 34 

CROCKETT,  INGRAM  (Kentucky:  1856 )  ....  37 

Orion -  •  37 

The  Gossips 38 

The  Wind 41 

Worship 41 

DANDRIDGE,  DANSKE  (Virginia:  18 )  ...  43 

The  Dead  Moon 43 

The  Fairy  Camp  , 46 

The  Last  Night 46 

Twilight  in  the  Woods 48 

FENOLLOSA,  MARY  MCNEIL  (Alabama:  18 )  .  51 

A  Drifting  Petal 51 

An  Old  Photograph 51 

Miyoko  San 52 

Sunrise  in  the  Hills  of  Satsuma 53 

15 


16  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

FINCH,  JULIA  NEELY  (Alabama:  18 )       ...  55 

The    Unborn 55 

GORDON,  ARMISTEAD  CHURCHILL  (Virginia:  1855 )  58 

"Ah,  Si  Jeunesse  Savait!" 58 

Enise 60 

Four  Feet  on  a  Fender 62 

GORDON,  JAMES  LINDSAY  (Virginia:  1860-1904)  .     .  65 

Lorraine 65 

HAYNE,    PAUL   HAMILTON    (South    Carolina:    1830- 

1886) 68 

A  Comparison 68 

A  Little  While  I  Fain  Would  Linger  Yet     .      .  68 

By  the  Grave  of  Henry  Timrod 70 

Sonnet 73 

My  Study 74 

The  Mocking-Bird 74 

HAYNE,     WILLIAM     HAMILTON     (South     Carolina: 

1856 ; 76 

At  Anchor 76 

A  Cyclone  at  Sea 76 

An  Autumn  Breeze 77 

Exiles 77 

On  a  Bust  of  Mendelssohn 78 

Poem,  for  the  unveiling  of  the  bust  of  Sidney 

Lanier,  at  Macon,  Ga.f  October  if,  i8po  .     .  78 

Scandal 80 

HOPE,  JAMES  BARRON  (Virginia:  1827-1887)  ...  82 

Three  Summer  Studies 82 

HOWLAND,  EDWARD  (South  Carolina:  1832-1800)     .  86 

The  Condemned 86 

HUBNER,  CHARLES  W.  (Georgia:  1835--^)    ...  88 

I'm  Growing  Old  ..,,,,,...  88 


CONTENTS  17 


PAGE 

Quatrains — 89 

The  World 89 

Duty 89 

Fame 90 

When  We  Were  Twenty-one 90 

JEFFERSON,  THOMAS  (Virginia:  1743-1826)     ...  92 

Lovely  Peggy 92 

KEY,  FRANCIS  SCOTT  (Maryland:  1780-1843)     .      .  94 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner 94 

LANIER,  SIDNEY  (Georgia:  1842-1881)       ....  96 

A  Ballad  of  Trees  and  The  Master     ....  96 

An  Evening  Song 97 

Song  of  the  Chattahoochee 97 

Sunrise 99 

The  Marshes  of  Glynn 108 

LEGARE,  JAMES  MATTHEWS   (South   Carolina:  1823- 

1859) 114 

To  a  Lily 114 

McNEiLL,   JOHN    CHARLES    (North    Carolina:    1874- 

1907) 116 

A  Christmas  Hymn 116 

A  Few  Days  Off 117 

Dawn 118 

The  Bride 119 

The  Rattlesnake 120 

The  Wife 121 

Trifles 122 

Valentine 123 

Two  Pictures 124 

MALONE,   WALTER    (Mississippi:   1866 )      .     .      .  126 

October  in  Tennessee 126 

Opportunity ^7 


18  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

MILES,  GEORGE  HENRY  (Maryland:  1824-1871)  .  .  129 
Said  the  Rose 129 

MORRIS,  IDA  GOLDSMITH  (Kentucky:  18 )'  .  .  133 

Adrift .133 

Childless 133 

That  Little  Chap  of  Mine 135 

Israel 136 

Remembrance 137 

O'HARA,  THEODORE  (Kentucky:  1820-1867)  .  .  .  138 
The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead 138 

PAGE,  H.  F.  (North  Carolina:  1873 )  .  .  .  .'  142 

The  Last  Night  at  Appomattox  .  .  .  .  .  .142 

PALMER,  JOHN  WILLIAMSON  (Maryland:  1825-1896)  143 
Stonewall  Jackson's  Way 143 

PECK,  SAMUEL  MINTURN  (Alabama:  1854 )  .  .  146 

Bessie  Brown,,  M.  D 146 

Dollie 148 

Lillian's  Fan 149 

The  Grapevine  Swing 151 

PIATT,  SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  (Kentucky:  18 )  154 

The  Witch  in  the  Glass 154 

PINKNEY,  EDWARD  COATE  (Maryland:  1802-1828)  155 

A  Health 155 

The  Serenade 157 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN  (Virginia:  1809-1849)  .  .  .158 

A  Dream  Within  a  Dream 158 

Annabel  Lee 159 

Bridal  Ballad 161 

For  Annie 162 

Israfel 166 

Lenore 168 

The  Bells  . 170 


CONTENTS  19 


PAGE 

The  City  in  the  Sea 175 

The  Conqueror  Worm 177 

The  Haunted  Palace 178 

The  Raven 180 

The  Sleeper 188 

The  Valley  of  Unrest 191 

To  Helen 192 

To  One  in  Paradise 192 

Ulalume 193 

PRENTICE,  GEORGE  DENISON  (Kentucky:  1802-1870)  198 
The  Closing  Year 198 

PRESTON,  MARGARET  JUNKIN  (Virginia:  1820-1897)  202 

Flood-Tide 202 

The  Angel  Unaware 202 

We  Two 204 

RANDALL,  JAMES  RYDER  (Maryland:  1839-1908)  .  205 
My  Maryland 205 

RUSSELL,  IRWIN  (Mississippi:  1853-1879)  .  .  .  209 
The  Origin  of  the  Banjo 209 

RYAN,  ABRAM  JOSEPH  (Virginia:  1839-1886)  .  .  212 

The  Conquered  Banner 212 

The  Sword  of  Robert  Lee 214 

SASS,  GEORGE  HERBERT  (South  Carolina:  1845-  1908)  216 
In  a  King-Cambyses  Vein .  216 

SPALDING,  JOHN  LANCASTER  (Kentucky:  1840 )  .  219 

At  the  Ninth  Hour 219 

Death's  Grand  Avenue 220 

The  Praise  of  Men 220 

The  Spirit  of  Morning 221 

The  Starry  Host 222 

STANTON,  FRANK  LEBBY  (South  Carolina:  1857 )  223 

Little  Elaine 223 


20  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

STOCKARD,  HENRY  JEROME  (North  Carolina:  1858 )  224 

Shakespeare 224 

As  Some  Mysterious  Wanderer  of  the  Skies  .     .  224 

TABB,  JOHN  BANISTER  (Virginia:  1845-1900)     .      .  226 

A   Cradle-Song       .     . 226 

Fern  Song 227 

Keats 227 

Magdalen 228 

O'erspent 229 

On  the  Forthcoming  Volume  of  Sidney  Lanier's 

Poems 229 

Solitude 229 

The  Bubble 230 

The  Druid 230 

The  Plaint  of  the  Rose 231 

THOMPSON,  WILL  HENRY   (Georgia:  1848 )    .      .  232 

The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg 232 

TICKNOR,  FRANCIS  ORRAY  (Georgia:  1822-1874).    .  236 

Little   Giffen 236 

The  Sword  in  the  Sea     ........   237 

TIMROD,  HENRY  (South  Carolina:  1820-1867)     .      .  239 

At  Magnolia   Cemetery 239 

Hymn    [Sung   at   the   consecration   of   Magnolia 

Cemetery,  Charleston,  S.  C.] 240 

Sonnets 241 

TROUBETZKOY,  AMELIE  RIVES  (Virginia:  1863 )   .  244 

A    Mood 244 

Before  the  Rain 245 

A   Sonnet 247 

TUCKER,  BEVERLEY  DANDRIDGE  (Virginia:  1846 )    248 

The  Rhone  and  the  Arve 248 


CONTENTS  21 


PAGE 

WALLIS,  SEVERN  TEACKLE  (Maryland:  1816-1894)  257 

Dejection 257 

The  Curfew 259 

WEEDEN,  HOWARD  (Alabama:  18 )  .  .  .  .  260 

Mammy's  Lullaby 260 

The  Old  Boatman 260 

Two  Lovers  and  Lizette 261 

WELBY,  AMELIA  COPPUCK  (Maryland:  1819-1852)  .  263 
Twilight  at  Sea 263 

WYETH,  JOHN  ALLAN  (Alabama:  1845-. — )  .  ,  .  264 

My  Sweetheart's  Face 264 

To  My  Mother  . 265 

YOUNG,  MARTHA  (Alabama:  18 )  ....  266 

God's  Li'T  Jewelry 266 

INDEX  OF  TITLES 271 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 274 


JOHN  HENRY  BONER 


JOHN  HENRY  BONER 

(North  Carolina:  1845-1903) 

GATHER  LEAVES  AND  GRASSES 

GATHER  leaves  and  grasses, 

Love,  to-day, 
For   the   autumn   passes 

Soon  away. 

Chilly  winds  are  blowing. 
It  will  soon  be  snowing. 

Fill  the  vacant  places 

With   them,    dear, 
And  the  empty  vases. 

Brown    and    sere 
Sprays  and  leaves  yet  hold 
Glints  of  summer's  gold. 

In  the  drear  December 

When  it  snows, 
And  the  dying  ember 

Faintly  glows, 
Leaf  and  spray  may  bring 
Thoughts  of  rosy  spring. 


JOHN  HENRY  BONER 


Ah,  we  fondly  cherish 

Faded   things 
That  had  better  perish. 

Memory  clings 
To  each  leaf  it  saves. 
Chilly  winds  are  blowing, 
It  will  soon  be  snowing 

On  our  graves. 


REMEMBRANCE 

I  THINK  that  we  retain  of  our  dead  friends 
And  absent  ones  no  general  portraiture; 
That  perfect  memory  does  not  long  endure, 
But  fades  and  fades  until  our  own  life  ends. 
Unconsciously,  forgetfulness  attends 
That  grief  for  which  there  is  no  other  cure, 
But  leaves  of  each  lost  one  some  record  sure, — 
A  look,  an  act,  a  tone, —  something  that  lends 
Relief  and  consolation,  not  regret. 
Even  that  poor  mother  mourning  her  dead  child, 
Whose  agonizing  eyes  with  tears  are  wet, 
Whose  bleeding  heart  can  not  be  reconciled 
Unto  the  grave's  embrace, —  even  she  shall  yet 
Remember  only  when  her  babe  first  smiled. 


JOHN  HENRY  BONER  25 

THE  MOON-LOVED  LAND 

No  lovelier  song  was  ever  heard 
Than  the  notes  of  the  Southern  Mocking-Bird 
When  leaf  and  blossom  are  wet  with  dew 
And  the  wind  breathes  low  the  long  night  through. 
O  music  for  grief !     It  comes  like  a  song 
From  a  voice  in  the  stars;  and  all  night  long 
The  notes  flow.     But  you  must  live  in  the  South, 
Where  the  clear  moon  kisses  with  large  cool  mouth 
The  land  she  loves,  in  the  secret  of  night, 
To  hear  such   music, —  the   soul-delight 
Of  the  Moon-Loved  Land. 


When  gentle  twilight  softly  closes 
The  door  of  day,  and  the  sun-fed  roses 
Lavishly  sweeten  the  air,  you  will  hear 
That  wonderful  song  —  now  low  —  now  clear  — 
Till  the  silvery  moon   flushed  red   goes  down 
On  silent  country  and  sleeping  town. 
O  the  lovers  are  fond  in  the  groves  of  the  South 
When   the   large   moon   kisses   with   grand   sweet   mouth 
The  land  she  loves;  and  love  has  romance 
And  is  more  than  vow  and  wedding  and  dance 
In  the  Moon-Loved  Land. 


26  JOHN  HENRY  BONER 

THE  SWEET  LITTLE  FOOL 
(THE  LAMENT) 

I  WAS  a  fool ! 
When  he  looked  at  me  I  hung  my  head 

And  caught  at  a  blossoming  weed. 
When  he  spoke  I  felt  my  face  turn  red 

As  if  it  would  bleed, 
And  when  I  dared  look  up  again 
He  had  turned  the  bend  in  the  lane. 

I    was   a    fool  — 
For  I  waited  there  by  the  field  of  clover 

Trying  my    love   with   a   daisy, 
And  softly  saying  over  and  over 

"Surely  he  must  be  crazy  — 
Not  to  see  that  I  love  him !  "     Why 
Did  I  let  him  pass !     O,  because  I  — 
I  was  a  fool  —  that's  why  ! 
Blow   sweet  wind,  he  will  come  again  — 
And  I  will  be  walking  in  the  lane. 

I  was  a  fool ! 
O  shame,  shame  —  I  burn  with  shame ! 

Why  was  I  so  silly? 
Again  I  waited,  and  he  came 

Riding  his  cream-white  filly 


JOHN  HENRY  BONER  27 

And  whistling,  and  when  he  tipt  his  hat 

I  laughed  and  said  "  Oh,  how  glossy  and  fat 

Is  your  pretty  filly  !  " 
He  only  blushed.     No  wonder  —  for  me, 
That  a  country  girl  so  forward  should  be. 

(THE  SEQUEL) 

Last  night  when  the  moon  hung  low 

Across  the  field  of  clover, 
She  whispered,  "  I  love  you  so 

It  is  sweet  to  say  it  over 
And  over   again,   close  to  your   face, — 
But  I  have  neither  beauty  nor  grace. 
I  can't  believe  that  you  love  me !     I  — 
But  if  you  do,  now,  tell  me  why !  " 

He  answers,  as  he  gently  draws 

Her  lips  to  his     .     .     .     "I  love  you  because 

You're  a  sweet  little  fool." 


28  CHARLES  BRADENBAUGH 


CHARLES  BRADENBAUGH 

(Maryland:  18 ) 

THE  CAVALIER'S  SERENADE 

[From  the  papers  of  the  late  Charles  Bradenbaugh, 
and  published  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  April, 
1864.] 

YON  silent  star  his  flashing  shield 

Hangs  on  the  welkin  steep, 
While  he  and  I  alone  afield 

Watch  o'er  my  darling's  sleep. 

Of  the  South  wind  dreams  the  lily-bell, 

And  the  woodbine  of  the  bee  — 
O  faithful  star,  look  in  and  tell, 

Does  my  rose-bud  dream  of  me? 

Beneath  that  bosom's  sweet  unrest, 

What  dainty  fancies  bide, — 
As  folded  in  a  flowret's  breast 

The  prisoned  odors  hide. 

Yet  at  my  voice  these  phantoms  pass 

And  melt  in  tender  fear, 
Like  fairies  on  the  moon-lit  grass 

A  distant  step  who  hear. 


CHARLES  BRADENBAUGH  29 

O  fettered  bird!     O  startled  fawn! 

Thee  wait  I  to  behold, 
As  happy  clouds  await  the  dawn 

That  turns  their  locks  to  gold. 

Awake,  blithe  nature's  playmate  fair !  — 

All  darkness  she  beguiles, 
Who  scatters  on  the  longing  air 

The  largess  of  such  smiles ! 

Almost  I  feel  as  if  it  might 

Thy  timid  beauty  wrong 
To    weave  —  O    chaplet    of    delight !  — 

Thy  graces  into  song. 

The  chant  of  brooks  in  forest  dark, 

The  night  song  of  the  sea, 
The  airy  lyric  of  the  lark, 

Thy    minstrelsy   should   be ! 


30  PHILIP  ALEXANDER  BRUCE 


PHILIP  ALEXANDER  BRUCE 

(Virginia:  1856 ) 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

TIME  weighs  the  destinies  that  men  befall, 

Bestows  new  laurels,  turns  the  green  to  sere. 

Too  oft  no  honors  soothe  the  poet  here: 

But  when  his  Shade  has  passed  into  the  Hall 

Of  Death  we  hear  Fame's  trumpet  sound  through  all 

The  avenues  of  this  terrestrial  sphere, — 

A  blare  that  stirs  no  more  the  withered  ear, 

But  makes   men  pause  to  list  the  lofty  call 

To  pay  full  homage  to  a  slighted  name, 

And  genius  long  o'erlooked  with  fire  acclaim. 

Thus,  melancholy,  taciturn,  forlorn, 

Poe  went  his  way  through  thorns  and  rocks  and  sand: 

Lo !  Fortune  gave  him  then  her  empty  hand, 

But  for  him  dead  she  pours  her  amplest  horn. 


MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN  31 


MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN 

(Kentucky:  1865 ) 

ATTRIBUTES 

I  SAW  the  daughters  of  the  Dawn  come  dancing  o'er  the 

hills : 
The  wind  of  Morn  danced  with  them,  oh,  and  all  the 

elves  of  air: 

I  saw  their  ribboned  roses  blow,  their  gowns  of  daffodils, 
As  over  eyes  of  sapphire  tossed  the  wild  gold  of  their 
hair. 

I  saw  the  summer  of  their  feet  imprint  the  earth  with 

dew, 

And  all  the  wildflowers  open  eyes  in  joy  and  wonder- 
ment: 
I  saw  the  sunlight  of  their  hands  waved  at  each  bird  that 

flew, 

And  all  the  birds,  as  with  one  voice,  to  their  wild  love 
gave  vent. 

"  And,  oh !  "  I  said,  "  how  fair  you  are !  how  fair !  how 

very  fair !  — 

Oh,  leap,  my  heart !  and  laugh,  my  heart !   as  laughs 
and   leaps   the   Dawn !  — 


MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN 


Mount  with  the  lark  and  sing  with  him  and  cast  away 

your  care ! 

For  love  and  life  are  come  again  and  night  and  sor- 
row gone ! " 

I  saw  the  acolytes  of  Eve,  the  mystic  sons  of  Night, 
Come   pacing   through   the   ancient   wood   in   hoods   of 

hodden-gray 
Their  somber  cloaks  were   pinned  with   stars,   and  each 

one   bore   a   light, 
A  moony  lanthorn,  and  a  staff  to  help  him  on  his  way. 


BEAUTIFUL-BOSOMED,  O  NIGHT 
I 

BEAUTIFUL-BOSOMED,    O    Night,    in   thy   noon 
Move  with  majesty  onward!  soaring,  as  lightly 
As  a  singer  may  soar  the  notes  of  an  exquisite  tune, 
The  stars  and  the  moon 

Through  the  clerestories  high  of  the  heaven,  the  firma- 
ment's halls : 

Under   whose   sapphirine   walls, 
June,  hesperian  June, 

Robed  in  divinity  wanders.     Daily  and  nightly 
The  turquoise  touch  of  her  robe,  that  the  violets  star, 
The  silvery  fall  of  her  feet,  that  lilies  are, 


MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN  33 

Fill  the  land  with  languorous  light  and  perfume. — 

Is  it  the  melody  mute  of  burgeoning  leaf  and  of  bloom? 

The  music  of  Nature,  that  silently  shapes  in  the  gloom 

Immaterial  hosts 

Of  spirits  that  have  the  flowers  and  leaves  in  their  keep, 

Whom  I  hear,  whom  I  hear? 

With  their  sighs  of  silver  and  pearl? 

Invisible  ghosts, — 

Each  sigh  a  shadowy  girl, — 

Who  whisper  in  leaves  and  glimmer  in  blossoms  and  hover 

In  color  and  fragrance  and  loveliness,  breathed  from  the 

deep 

World-soul  of  the  mother, 
Nature;  who  over  and  over, — 
Both  sweetheart  and  lover, — 
Goes  singing  her   songs   from  one  sweet  month  to  the 

other. 


II 

Lo !  'tis  her  songs  that  appear,  appear, 
In  forest  and  field,  on  hill-land  and  lea, 
As  visible  harmony, 
Materialized  melody, 

Crystallized  beauty,  that  out  of  the  atmosphere 
Utters  itself,  in  wonder  and  mystery, 
Peopling  with  glimmering  essence  the  hyaline   far  and 
the   near.    , 


84  MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN 

III 

Behold  how  it  sprouts  from  the  grass  and  blossoms  from 

flower  and  tree ! 

In  waves  of  diaphanous  moonlight  and  mist, 
In  fugue  upon  fugue  of  gold  and  of  amethyst, 
Around  me,  above  me  it  spirals;  now  slower,  now  faster, 
Like  symphonies  born  of  the  thought  of  a  musical  mas- 
ter.— 

O  music  of  Earth !  O  God,  who  the  music  inspired ! 
Let  me  breathe  of  the  life  of  thy  breath ! 
And  so  be  fulfilled  and  attired 
In  resurrection,  triumphant  o'er  time  and  o'er  death ! 

HYMN  TO  SPIRITUAL  DESIRE 

I 

MOTHER  of  visions,  with  lineaments  dulcet  as  numbers 

Breathed  on  the  eyelids  of  Love  by  music  that  slumbers, 

Secretly,  sweetly,  O  presence  of  fire  and  snow, 

Thou  comest  mysterious, 

In  beauty  imperious, 

Clad  on  with  dreams  and  the  light  of  no  world  that  we 

know: 

Deep  to  my  innermost  soul  am  I  shaken, 
Helplessly  shaken  and  tossed, 
And  of  thy  tyrannous  yearnings  so  utterly  taken, 
My  lips,  unsatisfied,  thirst; 
Mine  eyes   are  accurst 


MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN  35 

With  longings  for  visions  that  far  in  the  night  are  for- 
saken ; 

And  mine  ears,  in  listening  lost, 
Yearn,  waiting  the  note  of  a  chord  that  will  never  awaken. 

II 

Like   palpable   music   thou   comest,   like   moonlight;   and 

far,— 

Resonant  bar  upon  bar, — 
The  vibrating  lyre 

Of  the  spirit  responds  with  melodious  fire, 
As  thy  fluttering  fingers  now  grasp  it  and  ardently  shake, 
With  laughter  and  ache, 

The  chords  of  existence,  the  instrument  star-sprung, 
Whose  frame  is  of  clay,  so  wonderfully  molded  of  mire. 

Ill 

Vested  with  vanquishment,  come,  O  Desire,  Desire ! 
Breathe  in   this  harp   of  my  soul  the  audible  angel  of 

Love! 

Make  of  my  heart  an  Israfel  burning  above, 
A  lute  for  the  music  of  God,  that  lips,  which  are  mortal, 

but  stammer ! 

Smite  every  rapturous  wire 

With  golden  delirium,   rebellion  and  silvery  clamor, 
Crying  — "  Awake !  awake !  " 
Too  long  hast  thou  slumbered !  too  far  from  the  regions 

of  glamour 


36  MADISON  JULIUS  CAWEIN 

With  its  mountains  of  magic,  its  fountains  of  faery,  the 

spar-sprung, 

Hast  thou  wandered  away,  O  Heart ! 
Come,  oh,  come  and  partake 
Of  necromance  banquets  of  Beauty;  and  slake 
Thy  thirst  in  the  waters  of  Art, 
That  are  drawn  from  the  streams 
Of  love  and  of  dreams. 


IV 

Come,  oh,  come ! 

No   longer   shall   language   be   dumb ! 

Thy  vision  shall  grasp  — 

As  one  doth  the  glittering  hasp 

Of  a  sword  made  splendid  with  gems  and  with  gold  — 

The  wonder  and  richness  of  life,  not  anguish  and  hate 

of  it  merely. 
And  out  of  the  stark 
Eternity,  awful  and  dark, 
Immensity  silent  and  cold, — 

Universe-shaking  as   trumpets,   or  cymbaling  metals, 
Imperious;  yet  pensive  and  pearly 
And  soft  as  the  rosy  unfolding  of  petals, 
Or  crumbling  aroma  of  blossoms  that  wither  too  early, — 
The  majestic  music  of  God,  where  He  plays 
On  the  organ,  eternal  and  vast,  of  eons  and  days." 


INGRAM  CROCKETT  37 


INGRAM  CROCKETT 

(Kentucky:  1856 ) 

ORION 

THE  splendor  of  Silence, —  of  snow-jeweled  hills  and  of 

ice, 

And  the  shield  of  Auriza  aflame  with  its  starry  device, 
And  Sirius  fair  with  a  beauty  and  youth  as  of  one 
Untiring  and  eager,  and  swift  for  the  race  to  be  run. 

The  mystical  reaches  of  space  and  the  cosmical  cries 
Of  a  star  that  is  born,  of  a  star  that  all  desolate  dies  — 
And  ever  the  follow  and  cry  and  the  echoes  that  keep, 
For  the  dreamer  of  dreams,  the  voices  of  deep  unto  deep. 

At  the  call  of  the  Hunter,  bright-belted  and  King  of  them 

all, 

Who  scatters  the  aeons,  as  dewdrops,  unheeding  their  fall, 
The  soul  of  the  watcher  upsprings  to  follow,  follow  the 

chase 
To  the  striving  and  death  of  far  worlds  in  the  fiery  race. 


INGRAM  CROCKETT 


To  the  fields  of  an  infinite  whirling  of  flakes  of  new  fire, 

That  scatter  and  ceaselessly  come  with  a  quenchless  de- 
sire 

To  be  shaped,  to  be  on  where  the  mightier  ones  are 
away  — 

Fa/  flaming  through  deathless  night  in  the  glory  of  death- 
less day. 

Till  he  come  to  the  purpose  of  all,  till  the  Hunter  is  dead, 
And  his  ashes  are  lost,  and  another  cries  hollo !  instead, — 
Till  he  come  to  the  Place  of  the  Purpose,  and,  dauntlessly 

free, 
He  taketh  his  quarry  of  Light,  of  Truth,  and  of  Beauty  to 

Be. 


THE  GOSSIPS 

IN  Death's  dark  wood  two  cedars  stood; 

Each  nodded  o'er  a  grave, 
The  wind  blew  shrill,  the  snow  fell  chill 

Before  the  wintry  wave. 

"  When  I  was  young,"  said  one,  whose  tongue 

Was  like  a  sobbing  sigh, 
"  The  way  was  new,  the  dead  were  few  — 

This  was  the  first  to  die. 


INGRAM  CROCKETT  39 

"  And  here  by  her,  in  April's  blur 

Of  misty  green  and  red, 
They  planted  me  —  that  I  might  be 
Companion  to  the  dead. 

"  By  night,  by  day,  so  still  she  lay ; 

She  was  a  little  thing: 
Yet  oft  I  thought  she  must  have  caught 
My  lonely  whispering. 

"  Then  one  by  one,  in  cloud  and  sun, 

With  mourning  and  with  tears, 
The  small  and  great  in  solemn  state 
Came,  with  the  passing  years. 

"  The  wood  grew  trim,  and  passing  prim 

The  formal  pathways  ran  — 
And  many  a  shaft  was  epitaphed 
With  pride  and  prayers  of  man." 

The  other  torn  by  storms  and  worn, 

Wailed  in  a  laughter  wild: 
"  Ere  you,"  he  said,  "  an  older  dead 
In  heaps   lay  here  defiled. 

"  The  tainted  dust,   a  yellow   crust, 

Was   thick   on   every   leaf; 
By  plague  laid  waste,  they  came  in  haste  — 
There  was  no  time  for  grief. 


40  INGRAM  CROCKETT 

"  Oft  in  the  night,  or  dawn's  wan  light, 

Or  in  the  sickening  heat, 
They  came,  they  came  —  the  land  was  flame, 
The  living  scarce  did  eat. 

"To  priest  or  creed  they  paid  small  heed; 

The  quickly  hollowed  ground  — 
The  trampled  sod,  the  falling  clod, 
The  raw  unsightly  mound. 

"  At   twilight   dim   they   came   with   him 

Whose  dust  beneath  me  lies, 
Hid  none  too  soon  —  a  ghastly  moon 
Was   in  the   sullen  skies. 

"  That  midnight  drear  a  form  drew  near, 

A   stricken,   slender  shape, 
With  moaning  sound  and  clasped  the  mound - 
The  sunken  graves  did  gape. 

"And  once  again,  unseen  of  men, 

She  came  and  weeping  made 
A  place   for  me  in  memory 
Of    him    who    had    betrayed. 

"And  then  one  day  when  earth  was  gay, 

And   flowers    bestrewed   this    spot, — 
They  brought  her  in,  a  thing  of  sin, 
Her  grave   is  long  forgot." 


INGRAM  CROCKETT  41 

THE  WIND 

THE  way  of  the  wind  is  a  strange,  wild  way, 

As  over  the  clover  he  goes; 
Listen,  and  you  shall  hear  him  play 

Quaint   ditties   he   only  knows, — 
Melodies  waking  the  clover  to  sway 

And  dimpling  the  pink  wild-rose. 

For  the  wind  is  mad  with  the  old,  old  spell 

That  was  cast  in  the  morn  of  Time; 
That  poets  have  ever  been  fain  to  tell 

In  the  ripple  and  flow  of  rhyme. 
List,  to  the  long  sweet  lisping  swell, 

And  the  sudden  silvery  chime. 

And  the  wind  has  listened  to  Merlin  there, 

In  his  mystic  place  by  the  sea, 
And  the  wild-rose,  blushing,  would  better  take  care, 

For  the  wind  is  a  lover  free  — 
And  when  he  sings  softly  beware,  beware 

The  song  and  the  witchery. 

WORSHIP 

NOT  where  men  congregate  to  talk  of  God, 
And  thunder  forth  their  dogmas  in  His  name, 

But  here,  my  heart,  where  silken  bluebells  nod 
And  rosy  redbuds  flame. 


42  INGRAM  CROCKETT 

Here  where  the  wind,  His  spirit,  prayeth  low, 
And  Spring  each  word  of  ministry  fulfills 

In  bud  and  bloom,  with  green-and-golden  glow 
Crowning  the  prophet  hills. 

Where  root,  and  twig,  and  bough  obey  His  will, 
And  every  leaf  has  its  appointed  place, — 

And  all  the  trees  are  waiting,  reverent,  still; 
His  never-failing  grace. 


DANSKE  DANDRIDGE  43 


DANSKE  DANDRIDGE 

(Virginia:  18 ) 

THE  DEAD  MOON 

WE  are  ghost-ridden  c 

Through  the  deep  night 
Wanders  a  spirit, 

Noiseless  and  white. 

Loiters  not,  lingers  not,  knoweth  not  rest; 
Ceaselessly  haunting  the  East  and  the  West. 

She,  whose  undoing  the  ages  have  wrought, 
Moves  on  to  the  time  of  God's  rhythmical  thought. 
In   the   dark,    swinging   sea, 

As  she  speedeth  through  space, 
She  reads  her  pale  image; 

The  wounds  are  agape  on  her  face. 
She  sees  her  grim  nakedness 

Pierced  by  the  eyes 
Of  the  Spirits  of  God 

In  their  flight  through  the  skies. 
(Her  wounds  they  are  many  and  hollow.) 

The  Earth  turns  and  wheels  as  she  flies, 
And  this   Specter,  this  Ancient,  must  follow. 


44  DANSKE  DANDRIDGE 

When,    in   the   aeons, 

Had  she  beginning? 
What   is    her   story? 

What  was  her  sinning? 
Do  the  ranks  of  the  Holy  Ones 

Know  of  her  crime? 
Does  it  loom  in  the  mists 

Of  the  birthplace  of  Time? 
The  stars,  do  they  speak  of  her 

Under  their  breath, 
"Will  this  Wraith  be  forever 

Thus  restless  in  death  ?  " 
On,  through  immensity, 

Sliding  and  stealing, 
On,  through  infinity, 

Nothing  revealing. 

I  see  the  fond  lovers; 
They  walk  in  her  light; 

They  charge  the  "  soft  maiden " 
To  bless  their  love-plight. 

Does  she  laugh  in  her  place, 

As  she  glideth  through  space? 
Does  she  laugh  in  her  orbit  with  never  a  sound? 

That  to  her,  a  dead  body, 
With  nothing  but  rents  in  her  round  — 

Blighted  and  marred, 

Wrinkled  and  scarred, 


DANSKE  DANDRIDGE  45 

Barren  and  cold, 

Wizened  and  old  — 

That  to  her  should  be  told, 
That  to  her  should  be  sung 
The  yearning  and  burning  of  them  that  are  young? 

Our  Earth  that  is  young, 

That  is  throbbing  with  life, 
Has  fiery  upheavals, 

Has   boisterous    strife; 

But  she  that  is  dead  has  no  stir,  breathes  no  air; 
She  is  calm,  she  is  voiceless,  in  lonely  despair. 
We  dart  through  the  void; 

We  have  cries,  we  have  laughter; 
The  phantom  that  haunts  us 

Comes   silently   after. 
This   Ghost-lady   follows, 

Though  none  hear  her  tread; 
On,  on,  we  are  flying, 

Still  tracked  by  our  Dead  — 
By  this  white,  awful  Mystery, 

Haggard  and  dead. 


46  DANSKE  DANDRIDGE 

THE  FAIRY  CAMP 

WHAT  did  I  see  in  the  woods  to-day? 

I  saw  a  fairies'  gipsy  camp. 
The  tents   were   toadstools,   brown  and  gray, 

Among  the  bracken,  soiled  and  damp. 
I  called  on  a  cowslip  'mid  the  green, 

And  borrowed  a  bit  of  fairy  gold, 
And   then   I    found   the   Gipsy   Queen, 

And  so  I  had  my  fortune  told. 

Ah,  yes,  she  told  me  a  secret  true, 

That  wild-eyed  gipsy,  brown  and  red; 
But  I  may  not  tell  it  out  to  you, 

For  that  would  break  the  charm,  she  said. 
And  if  you  seek  them  by  yourself 

You  will  not  find  that  strolling  band; 
They  have  pilfered  the  wild  bees'  hoarded  pelf, 

And  flitted  away  to  another  land. 


THE  LAST  NIGHT 

AH  !  how  she  trembles  when  the  night  is  long, 
And,  sitting  idle  in  her  old  armchair, 

She  hears  the  rude  wind  shout  his  drunken  song, 
While  thoughts  that  sleep  in  light  and  only  dare 

To  walk,  like  ghosts,  on  wildest  nights  forlorn, 

Hold  ghostly  counsel  till  the  breaking  morn, 


DANSKE  DANDRIDGE 


Thus,  like  the  clangor  of  alarum-bells 
When  on  a  sleeping  town  the  rabble  springs, 

A  ringing  in  her  pulses  sinks  and  swells, 
And  times  the  song  the  Bacchant  Tempest  sings: 

Thus  beats  the  hurried  tocsin  in  her  brain, 

And  all  her  soul  is  sacked  by  Fear  again. 

"  Wild  night  !  wild  fear  !  strong  love,  and  stronger  sin  ! 

Ah!  recompense  too  just  for  me  to  bear! 
The  casement  shudders  back,  It  flutters  in: 

The  trembling  shadow  of  my  guilt  is  there; 
In  from  the  sleet,  the  night,  the  uproar  wild; 
My  shame  and  my  despair  —  my  child,  my  child  ! 

"  O  little  form  that  I  may  never  fold  ! 

Beyond  my  empty  arms  my  baby  stands. 
It  sobs,  it  cries,  it  shivers  with  the  cold: 

Its  eyes  are  his:  it  wrings  its  tiny  hands. 
Ah  God,  my  baby,  that  may  never  rest 
In  dewy  slumber  on  my  guilty  breast! 

"  It  was  not  I,  thou  little  ghost,  not  I  : 

I  slept  as  one  who  would  not  wake  again: 

They  stole  thee  in  my  sleep.     I  could  not  die, 
But  woke  to  loss  and  emptiness  and  pain. 

O  heinous  crime  to  save  an  honored  name, 

That  none  might  point  a  finger  at  my  shame. 


48  DANSKE  DANDRIDGE 

"  Here  in  my  bosom  burns  a  fiery  tide 
No  velvet  baby  lips  will  suck  away. 

0  cruel  hurt  of  love !     O  hellish  pride ! 

O  murdered  baby,  take  your  eyes  away ! 
Thou  weary  child  no  mother-love  can  warm, 
Flit  out  into  the  night,  the  sleet,  the  storm. 

"  The  wind  is  wilder.     Ah,  Christ,  let  me  die ! 

O  Tempest,  blow  away  my  feeble  breath ! 
In  some  hid  cavern  with  my  child  to  lie  — 

O  sudden  hope  that  gives  me  strength  for  death !  " 

She  leaves  the  chair ;  she  wanders  far  from  home : 
"  I  come,  my  little  lonely  one,  I  come ! 

1  reach  the  river:     Oh,  'tis  cold;  but  thou 
Art  colder  still,  and  I  am  with  thee  now !  " 


TWILIGHT  IN  THE  WOODS 

THE  hour  for  praise  has  come  again, 
Within  these  arches,  tall  and  dim, 

And  all  the  forest  is  a  fane 
Where  Nature  sings  her  vesper  hymn, 

With  birds  and  insects  and  the  breeze 

To  voice  her  glad  solemnities. 

Here,  at  the  ending  of  the  day, 
The  Locust  folds  her  leaves  to  pray; 


DANSKE  DANDRIDGE  49 

The  bees  that  cheered  her  all  along 
Fly  homeward  with  an  even-song: 
The  Oak  is  at  his  orisons : 
The  stream  with  whispered  chanting  runs : 

The  Lady  Birch  and  Alder  trees 
Do  tell  their  beads  like  veiled  nuns, 

With  hanging  vines  for  rosaries: 
The  flowers  with  meek  petition  rise 
And  lift  to  Heaven  appealing  eyes; 
Sweet  eyes,  all  dimmed  with  holy  tears 

To-morrow's  sun  will  kiss  away: 
Thus  the  sad  spirit,  worn  with  fears, 

When  darkness  shrouds  the  glimmering  day, 
Succumbs  to  weariness  and  pain, 
To  smile  when  sunlight  comes  again. 
Now  stirs  the  blast,  and  from  each  tree 
Responds  a  murmured  litany: 
Then  —  silence:  till  the  reverent  hush 
Is  broken  by  the  tranquil  thrush, — 
Fit  preacher  for  these  solitudes, 
Benignant  hermit  of  the  woods. 

"  Peace !  "  speaks  the  lofty  bird.     "  Be  still. 
Learn  loving,  and  the  Maker's  will." 
His  pulpit  is  an  ancient  tree, 
Draped  with  large  creepers  decently; 
From  which  he  cries  his  parting  word: 
"  O  holy,  holy,  holy  Lord !  " 


50  DANSKE  DANDRIDGE 

Follows    with    tones    of   yearning   love, 
The  benediction  of  the  dove: 
After, —  the  service  comes  to  end, 
And  on  my  homeward  way  I  wend 
As  one  who  walks  within  the  Veil, 
Or  sees,  bright-orbed,  the  Holy  Grail, 
And  feels,  as  't  were,  an  aureole 
Of  chastened  rapture  crown  his  soul. 


MARY  McNEIL  FENOLLOSA  51 


MARY  McNEIL  FENOLLOSA 

(Alabama:  18 ) 

A  DRIFTING  PETAL 

IF  I,  athirst  by  a  stream,  should  kneel 
With  never  a  blossom  or  bud  in  sight, 
Till  down  on  the  theme  of  its  liquid  night 
The  moon-white  tip  of  a  sudden  keel, 

A   fairy  boat, 
Should  dawn  and  float 
To  my  hand,  as  only  the  Gods  deserve, 
The   cloud-like  curve, 
The  loosened  sheaf, 
The  ineffable  pink  of  a  lotus  leaf, — 
I  should  know,  I  should  feel,  that  far  away 
On  the  dimpled  rim  of  a  brighter  day 
A  thought  had  blossomed,  and  shaken  free 
One  sheath  of  its  innermost  soul  for  me. 

AN  OLD  PHOTOGRAPH 

OUT  from  its  casket  of  pungent  calf, 
Out  from  the  strata  of  yellowing  leaves 

I  startled  a  picture, —  a  photograph 
Hid  like  a  fern,  in  the  old  world's  sleeves. 


52  MARY  McNEIL  FENOLLOSA 

I  caught  it,  and  stared  with  my  heart  at  bay 

Sweet  eyes  !  Sweet  lips  !     And  a  smile  like  light ! 

The  face,  as  a  rose,  in  its  dew-dream  lay, 
How  could  she  know  of  the  coming  night? 

Why  should  I  shrink  from  her  unknown  fears? 

I  am  a  woman,  and  proud  and  cold. 
I'm  done  with  shrinking,  and  done  with  tears. 

Who  weeps  on  the  pictured  face  I  hold? 

Why  should  I  rise,  with  a  sudden  start, 
Seeking  a  mirror ;  with  eyes  flashed  keen 

From  one  to  the  other?     Oh!  withered  heart! 
And  the  row  of  grimacing  ghosts  between ! 

MIYOKO  SAN 

SNARE  me  the  soul  of  a  dragon-fly, 
The  jeweled  heart  of  a  dew-tipped  spray, 

A  star's  quick  eye, 

Or  the  scarlet  cry 
Of  a  lonely  wing  on  a  dawn-lit  bay. 

Then  add  the  gleam  of  a  golden  fan, 

And  I  will  paint  you  Miyoko  San. 

Find  me  the  thought  of  a  rose,  at  sight 
Of  her  own  pale  face  in  a  fawning  stream, 

The  polished  night 

Of  a  crow's  slow  flight, 


MARY  McNEIL  FENOLLOSA  53 

And  the  long,  sweet  grace  of  a  willow's  dream. 
Then  add  the  droop  of  a  golden  fan, 
And  I  will  paint  you  Miyoko  San. 

Lure  me  a  lay  from  a  sunbeam's  throat, 
The  chant  of  bees  in  a  perfumed  lair, 
Or  a  single   note 
Gone  mad  to  float 

To  its  own  sweet  death  in  the  upper  air. 
Then  add  the  click  of  a  golden  fan, 
And  I  have  painted  Miyoko  San. 


SUNRISE  IN  THE  HILLS  OF  SATSUMA 

THE  day  unfolds  like  a  lotus  bloom, 

Pink  at  the  tip  and  gold  at  the  core, 
Rising  up  swiftly  through  waters  of  gloom 
That  lave  night's  shore. 

Down   bamboo-stalks   the   sunbeams   slide, 

Darting  like  glittering  elves  at  play, 
To  the  thin  arched  grass  where  crickets  hide 
And  sing  all  day. 

The  old  crows  caw  from  the  camphor  boughs, 

They  have  builded  there  for  a  thousand  years; 
Their  nestlings  stir  in  a  huddled  drowse 
To  pipe  shrill  fears. 


54  MARY  McNEIL  FENOLLOSA 

A  white  fox  creeps  to  his  home  in  the  hill, 

A  small  gray  ape  peers  up  at  the  sun; 
Crickets  and  sunbeams  are  quarreling  still; 
Day  has  begun. 


JULIA  NEELY  FINCH  55 


JULIA  NEELY  FINCH 

(Alabama :    1 8 ) 

THE  UNBORN 

THOU  art  my  very  own, 

A  part  of  me, 

Bone  of  my  bone 

And   flesh   of   my   flesh. 

And  thou  shalt  be 

Heart  of  my  heart 

And  brain  of  brain  — 

In  years  that  are  to  come  to  me  and  thee. 

Before  thou  wast  a  being,  made 

Of  spirit,  as  of  flesh, 

Thou  didst  sleep  beneath  the  beats 

Of  my  tumultuous  heart,  and  drink, 

With  little  aimless  lips 

And  blind,  unseeing  eyes, 

From  every  bursting  vein 

Replete  with  life's  abundant  flood. 

Ay !  even  of  my  very  breath, 

And  from  my  blood 

Thou  didst  imbibe  the  fresh 


56  JULIA  NEELY  FINCH 

And  glorious  air,  that  holds  the  sweets 
Of  nature's  sure  and  slow  eclipse; 
That  ceaseless  round  of  life  and  death 
Which  are  the  close  entwined  braid 
Of  all  the  seasons'  subtle  mesh 
And  endless  chain. 

In  a  soft  and  silken  chamber  set  apart  — 

Here,  just  beneath  my  happy  heart, — 

Thou  didst  lie   at  dreamy  ease 

While  all  my  being  paid 

Its  tribute  unto  thee. 

What  happy  hours  for  thee  and  me ! 

As  when  a  bird 

Broods  on  its  downy  nest  — 

So  would  I   sit 

And  watch  the  flit 

Of  idle  shadows  to  and  fro, 

And  brood  upon  my  treasure  hid 

Within  my  willing  flesh. 

And  when  there  stirred 

A   little  limb, —  a  tiny  hand  !  — 

What  rapturous  thrills  of  ecstasy 

Shook  all  my  being  to  its  inmost  citadel ! 

Ah !  none  but  she  who  has  borne 

A   child  beneath   her  breast   may  know 

What  wondrous  thrill  and  subtle  spell 

Comes  from  this  wondrous  woven  band 


JULIA  NEELY  FINCH  57 

That  binds  a  mother  to  her  unborn  child 
Within  her  womb. 
As  in  the  earth  — 
That    fragrant    tomb 
Of  all  that  lives,  or  man  or  beast  — 
Soft  blossoms  bud  and  bloom  and  swell, 
So  didst  thou  from  my  body  gain 
Sweet  sustenance  and  royal   feast. 

Then  through  the  gates  of  priceless  pain 

Thou  earnest  to  me  —  fair,  so  fair, 

And  so  complete 

From  rose-tipped  feet 

To  silken  hair ! 

And  there  beneath  each  pearly  lid, 

There  glowed  a  jewel  —  passing  rare! 

It  moves  and  breathes  !     It  slakes  its  thirst 

At  my  all-abundant  breast ! 

Oh,  moment  born  of  life  —  of  love ! 

Oh,  rapture  of  all  earth's  high,  high  above ! 

Three  lives  in  one  — 

By  loving  won ! 

My  own  —  and  thine  — 

Oh,  bond  divine ! 

Our  little  child!     Our  little  child! 


58     ARMISTEAD    CHURCHILL   GORDON 


ARMISTEAD  CHURCHILL  GORDON 

(Virginia :     1855 ) 

"AH,  SI  JEUNESSE  SAVAIT!" 

HAD  Youth  but  known  some  years  ago, 
That  freckled-faced  small  girls  would  grow, 

In   most   astounding  way, 
To  lovely  women  in  whose  eyes 
The  light  a  man  most  longs  for  lies  — 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 

Had  Youth  but  known  —  my  youth,  I  mean, 
That  you  would  walk  as  regnant  queen 

Of  hearts  in  this   new  day  — 
That  elfin  locks  could  change  to  curls 
Softer    than    any    other    girl's  — 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 

Had  youth  but  known   the  time  would  come 
When   I   should   stand,   abashed  and  dumb, 

With  not  one  word  to  say, 
Before  you,  whom  in  days  gone  by 
I'd   tease    until    you    could   but    cry  — 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 


ARMISTEAD    CHURCHILL   GORDON     59 

I  little  dreamed  in  those  old  days 
Of   undeveloped,    winning   ways 
To  wile  men's  hearts  away  — 
When  wading  in  the  brook  with  you 
I  splashed  your  best   frock  through  and  through. 
•   Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 

Your  pretty  nose  —  ah,  there's  the  rub, — 
I  used  to  laugh  at  once  as  "  snub  " 

Is   now   nez   retrousse; 
Upon  the  one-time  brown,  bare  feet 
You  wear  French  kids  now,  trim  and  neat, — 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 

The  brief  kilt-skirt,  the  legs  all  bare, 
The  freckled  face,  the  tangled  hair, 

These  things  are  passed  away: 
You  are  a  woman  now   full  grown, 
With  lovers  of  your  very  own  — 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 

You'd  plead  to   be   my  comrade  then, 
With  tearful  big,  brown  eyes. —  Ah,  when, 

My   winning,    winsome    May, 
Will  words  like  those  your  lips  a-tween, 
Come  back  again  ?     No  more,  I  ween ! 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 


60     ARMISTEAD    CHURCHILL    GORDON 

Time  turns  the  tables.     It   is  meet, 
Doubtless,  that  I  here  at  your  feet 

Should  feel  your  scepter's  sway  — 
Should  know  you  hold  me  'neath  your  heel, — 
Should  love  you  —  and  should  —  well,  should  feel : 

Ahf  si  jeunesse  savaitl 

ENISE 

VERY  fair  you  are,  Enise, 

For  you  hold 

In  your  eyes 

All  the  blue  of  summer  skies, 
In  your  tresses  all  the  shimmer 

Of  red  gold. 

And  your  cheeks  are  pink,  Enise, 

As  a  rose; 

And  your  mouth 
A  sweet  blossom  of  the  South; 
And  tip-tilted  like  its  petal 

Is  your  nose! 

And  that  form  of  yours,  Enise, 

Lacks  no  grace 

Lilies  wear; 

And  your  bosom's  swelling  heave 
Tells   of   sprites   imprisoned  there, 

I  believe, 


ARMISTEAD    CHURCHILL   GORDON     61 

That  would  fain  be  free,  Enise, 

For  awhile. — 

Yet  your  charms, — 

Eyes  and  hair  and  throat  and  arms, — 
None  of  these,  Enise,  bewitch  me 

Like  your  smile. 

Did  you  ever  know,  Enise, 

Of  that  creed 

Which    the   old 
Rabbins  of  the  Talmud  hold 
Of   all    spirits?     Should   I    tell   you, 

Would  you  heed? 

You  have  lived  alway,  Enise, — 

Thus   they   say, — 

At  the  birth 

Of  your   body   on   the   earth, 
Passed  your  ever-living  soul 

Into  this  clay. 

And  your  guardian  angel  came, 

Spread  white  wings 

O'er  you  there, — 
Touched  his  finger  to  your  lips 

With  a  prayer, — 
And  you  knew  no  longer  ante-natal  things. 


62     ARMISTEAD    CHURCHILL    GORDON 

As  the  Rabbins,  I,  Enise, 

Hold  it  too:  — 

When   those   wings 
For  a  moment  are  uplifted 

Memory   brings 
Visions  of   a  happier  life 

Back    to    you. 

Do  you  marvel  thoughts  like  these 

Should   beguile 

Minds  like  mine? 
I    can    nothing,  else    divine 
That   could   lend   such   holy  sweetness 

To  your   smile. 


FOUR  FEET  ON  A  FENDER 

IT  is  anthracite  coal,  and  the  fender  is  low, 

Steel-barred  is  the  grate,  and  the  tiles 
Hand-painted  in  figures;  the  one  at  the  top 

Is  a  Japanese  lady,  who  smiles. 
There's  an  or-molu  clock  on  the  mantel;  above, 

A  masterpiece:  fecit  Gerome; 

On  the   fender  four  feet  —  my  young  wife's  feet  and 
mine, 

Trimly  shod,  in  a  row  and  —  at  home. 


ARMISTEAD    CHURCHILL    GORDON     63 

My  slippers  are  broidered  of  velvet  and  silk, 

The   work   of   her   fingers   before 
We  stood  at  the  altar.     To  have  them  made  up 

Cost  me  just  a  round  five  dollars  more 
Than  a  new  pair  had  cost  at  my  bootmaker's  shop; 

But  each  stitch  was  a  token  of  love  — 
And  she  never  shall  know.     Ah,  how  easy  they  are 

On  their  perch  the  steel  fender  above. 

Words  fail  me  to  tell  of  her  own.     There's  a  chest 

In  her  father's  old  garret;  and  there 
'Mid  a  thousand  strange  things  of  a  century  past 

She  discovered  this  ravishing  pair. 
They  are  small,  trim  and  natty;  their  color  is  red; 

And  they   each  have  the  funniest  heel. 
White  balbriggan  stockings,  high-clocked,  underneath 

These  decollete  slippers  reveal. 

Ah,  many  a  time   in  my   grandfather's   day 

They  led  the  old  fellow  a  dance. 
They  were  bought  with  Virginia  tobacco,  and  came, 

Who   would   guess   it  ?  —  imported   from   France. 
How  odd  that  yon  stern-faced  ancestor  of  mine 

In  the  earlier  days  of  his  life 

Should  have  loved  her  who  tripped  in  these  red  slippers 
then, — 

The  young  grandmamma  of  my  wife ! 


64     ARMISTEAD    CHURCHILL    GORDON 

The    course    of    some    true    loves,    at    least,    runs    not 
smooth, — 

And  I'm  glad  that  it's  so,  when  I  see 
The  trim,  dainty  feet  in  the  red  slippers  there 

Which  belong  to  my  lady  —  and  me  ! 
Two  short  months  ago  in  this  snug  little  room 

I  sat  in  this  soft-cushioned  seat; 
No  companion  was  near  save  my  pipe.     Now,  behold 

On  the  polished  steel  fender  four  feet ! 

Let  them  prate  of  the  happiness  Paradise  yields 

To   the  Moslem, —  the  raptures  that  thrill 
The  soul  of  the  Hindu  whom  Juggernaut  takes, — 

The  bliss  of  Gan-Eden ;  —  and  still 
I'll  believe  that  no  gladness  which  man  has  conceived 

Can    compare    with    the    tranquillized    state 
That  springs  from  two  small  feet  alongside  one's  own, 

On  the  fender  in  front  of  his  grate. 

L'ENVOi 

In  vain  the  illusion.     The  trim   feet  are  gone. 

They  trip  by  my  door  every  day;  — 
Yet  they  stop  not  nor  tarry;  but  swiftly  pass  on, 

Nor   can  I   persuade  them  to   stay. 
And  a  bachelor's  dreams  are  but  dreams  at  the  best, 

Be  they  never  so  fond  or  so  sweet. 
The  anthracite  blaze  has  burned  low;  and  behold 

On  the  fender  two  lonesome  old  feet! 


JAMES  LINDSAY  GORDON  65 


JAMES  LINDSAY  GORDON 

(Virginia:  1860-1904) 

LORRAINE 

BONNY  Lorraine,  have  you  forgot 

The  time  we  walked  o'er  the  morning  lea? 
I  still  keep  the  blue  forget-me-not 

That  you  took  from  your  hair  and  gave  to  me. 
Would  you  like  to  walk  those  ways  again 

With  me  at  your  side  in  the  morning  time? 

Do  you  ever  think  of  your  youth's  sweet  prime, 
And  your  young  boy-lover,  Bonny  Lorraine? 

Ah,  well  I  remember  the  time  we  stood 
By  the  glancing  river  when  day  was  done, 

And  the  whispering  trees  in  the  dim  old  wood 
Turned  crimson  and  gold  in  the  setting  sun: 

When  your  heart  and  your  lips  and  your  arms  were  fain 
To  cling  to  me  there  as  your  life's  one  love 
While  the  stars  came  out  the  skies  above, — • 

Do  you  remember  it,  Bonny  Lorraine? 


66  JAMES  LINDSAY  GORDON 

Surely   your   heart   could   not   forget 
The  night  when  I  bade  you  a  last  farewell; 

Your  long,  dark  lashes  with  tears  were  wet, 
And  your  anguish  more  than  your  lips  could  tell; 

How  you  kissed  me  there  as  I  stood  in  the  rain, 
And  held  me  fast  while  you  bade  me  go, — 
With  your  desolate,  golden  head  bowed  low, 

I  know  you  remember,  Bonny  Lorraine. 


Across   the   street   where   the   music   swells 

You  glide  through  the  throng  in  the  shadowy  dance. 

In  your  ears  the  sound  of  your  marriage  bells 
In  your  heart  the  dream  of  the  old  romance; 

I  see  you  glimmer  across  the  pane  — 

The  jewels  ablaze  in  your  shining  hair, — 
And  the  form  of  another  beside  you  there, 

But  I  do  not  envy  him  now,  Lorraine. 


Let  him  bow  down  low  at  your  royal  feet, — 
Let  him  sing  love's  song  if  it  brings  him  joy; 

I  sang  it  once  and  I  found  it  sweet 
In  the  days  when  you  charmed  me  —  a  foolish  boy; 

But  I  never  shall  waken  the  old  refrain, 
Its  beautiful  music  is  almost  hushed: 
My  heart  was  bruised  but  it  was  not  crushed, 

And  it  loves  you  no  longer,  Bonny  Lorraine. 


JAMES  LINDSAY  GORDON  67 

Dance  on  while  the  music  throbs  and  beats: 

Drink  memory  to  death  in  your  wedding  wine; 
He  knows  not  your  life  whose  quick  glance  meets 

The  false,  sweet  light  in  your  eyes  divine. 
I  can  look  on  you  now  with  no  more  pain, — 

On  your  fair  proud  face,  in  your  splendid  eyes, — 

Then  looking  up  to  yon  starlit  skies 
Thank  God  that  I  lost  you,  Bonny  Lorraine. 


68  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

(South  Carolina:  1830-1886) 

A  COMPARISON 

I  THINK,  ofttimes,  that  lives  of  men  may  be 
Likened  to  wandering  winds  that  come  and  go, 
Not  knowing  whence  they  rise,  whither  they  blow 
O'er  the  vast  globe,  voiceful  of  grief  or  glee. 
Some  lives  are  buoyant  zephyrs  sporting  free 
In  tropic  sunshine;  some,  long  winds  of  woe 
That  shun  the  day,  wailing  with  murmurs  low, 
Through  haunted  twilights,  by  the  unresting  sea; 
Others  are  ruthless,  stormful,  drunk  with  might, 
Born  with  deep  passion  or  malign  desire: 
They  rave  'mid  thunder-peals  and  clouds  of  fire. 
Wild,  reckless  all,  save  that  some  power  unknown 
Guides  each  blind  force  till  life  be  overblown, 
Lost  in  vague  hollows  of  the  fathomless  night. 

A  LITTLE  WHILE  I  FAIN  WOULD  LINGER 

YET 
A  LITTLE  while  (my  life  is  almost  set!) 

I  fain  would  pause  along  the  downward  way, 
Musing  an  hour  in  this  sad  sunset-ray, 
While,  Sweet!  our  eyes  with  tender  tears  are  wet: 
A   little   hour    I    fain   would   linger   yet. 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE  69 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  yet, 

All  for  love's  sake,  for  love  that  cannot  tire; 
Though  fervid  youth  be  dead,  with  youth's  desire, 

And   hope   has   faded   to   a   vague   regret, 

A   little   while   I    fain   would   linger   yet. 

A  little  while  I  fain  would  linger  here: 

Behold!  who  knows  what  strange,  mysterious  bars 
'Twixt  souls  that  love  may  rise  in  other  stars? 

Nor  can  love  deem  the  face  of  death  is  fair: 

A  little  while  I  still  would  linger  here. 

A  little  while  I  yearn  to  hold  thee  fast, 
Hand  locked  in  hand,  and  loyal  heart  to  heart; 
(O  pitying  Christ!  those  woeful  words,  "We  part!") 
So  ere  the  darkness  fall,  the  light  be  past, 
A  little  while  I  fain  would  hold  thee  fast. 

A  little  while,  when  light  and  twilight  meet, — 
Behind,  our  broken  years;  before,  the  deep 
Weird  wonder  of  the  last  unfathomed  sleep, — 
A  little  while  I  still  would  clasp  thee,  Sweet, 
A  little  while,  when  night  and  twilight  meet. 

A  little  while  I   fain  would  linger  here; 
Behold !  who  knows  what  soul-dividing  bars 
Earth's  faithful  loves  may  part  in  other  stars? 

Nor  can  love  deem  the  face  of  death  is  fair: 

A  little  while  I  still  would  linger  here. 


70  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

BY  THE  GRAVE  OF  HENRY  TIMROD 

WHEN  last  we  parted  —  thy  frail  hand  in  mine  — 

Above  us  smiled  September's  passionless  sky, 
And  touched  by  fragrant  airs,  the  hill-side  pine 

Thrilled    in    the    mellow    sunshine    tenderly; 

So  rich  the  robe  on  nature's  slow  decay, 
We  scarce  could  deem  the  Winter  tide  was  near, 

Or  lurking  death,  masked  in  imperial  grace; 

Alas !  that  Autumn  day 
Drew  not  more  close  to  Winter's  empire  drear 

Than  thou,  my  heart !  to  meet  grief  face  to  face ! 

I  clasped  thy  tremulous  hand,  nor  marked  how  weak 

Its  answering  grasp;  and  if  thine  eyes  did  swim 
In  unshed  tears,  and  on  thy  fading  cheek 

Rested  a  nameless  shadow,  gaunt  and  dim, — 

My  soul  was  blind;  fear  had  not  touched  her  sight 
To  awful  vision;  so,  I  bade  thee  go, 

Careless,  and  tranquil  as  that  treacherous  morn; 

Nor   dreamed  how   soon   the   blight 
Of  long-implanted  seeds  of  care  would  throw 

Their  nightshade  flowers  above  the  springing  corn. 

Since  then,  full  many  a  year  hath  risen  and  set, 
With  Spring-tide  showers,  and  Autumn  pomps  unfurled 

O'er  gorgeous  woods,  and  mountain  walls  of  jet  — 
While  love  and  loss,  alternate,  ruled  the  world; 
Till  now  once  more  we  meet — my  friend  and  I  — 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE  71 

Once  more,  once  more  —  and  thus,  alas !  we  meet  — 
Above,  a  rayless  heaven;  beneath,  a  grave; 
Oh,   Christ !   and  dost  thou  lie 

Neglected  here,  in  thy  worn  burial-sheet? 

Friend!  were  there  none  to  shield  thee,  none  to  save? 

Ask  of  the  Winter  winds  —  scarce  colder  they 

Than  that  strange  land  —  thy  birthplace  and  thy  tomb: 
Ask  of  the  somber  cloud-wracks  trooping  gray, 

And  grim  as  hooded  ghosts  at  stroke  of  doom; 

At  least,  the  winds,  though  chill,  with  gentler  sweep 
Seem  circling  round  and  o'er  thy  place  of  rest, 

While  the  sad  clouds,  as  clothed  in  tenderer  guise, 

Do   lowly  bend,   and   weep 
O'er   the   dead    Poet,    in    whose   living   breast 

Dumb  nature  found  a  voice,  how  sweet  and  wise ! 

Once  more  we  meet,  once  more  —  my  friend  and  I  — 
But  ah !  his  hand  is  dust,  his  eyes  are  dark ; 

Thy  merciless  weight,  thou  dread  mortality, 
From  out  his  heart  hath  crushed  the  latest  spark 
Of  that  warm  life,  benignly  bright  and  strong; 

Yet  no;  we  have  not  met  —  my  friend  and  I  — 
Ashes  to  ashes  in  this  earthly  prison ! 
Are  these,  O  child  of  song, 

Thy  glorious  self,  heir  of  the  stars  and  sky? 

Thou  art  not  here,  not  here,  for  thou  hast  risen ! 


72  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

Death  gave  thee  wings,  and  lo !  thou  hast  soared  above 

All   human   utterance   and   all   finite   thought; 
Pain  may  not  hound  thee  through  that  realm  of  love, 

Nor  grief,  wherewith  thy  mortal  days  were  fraught, 

Load  thee  again  —  nor  vulture  want,  that  fed 
Even  on  thy  heart's  blood,  wound  thee;  idle,  then, 

Our  bitter  sorrowing;  what  though  bleak  and  wild 

Rests  thine  uncrowned  head? 
Known  art  thou  now  to  angels  and  to  men — • 

Heaven's  saint,  and  earth's  brave  singer  undefiled. 

Even  as  I  spake  in  broken  under-breath 

The  winds  drooped  lifeless;  faintly  struggling  through 
The  heaven-bound  pall,  which  seemed  a  pall  of  death, 

One  cordial   sunbeam  cleft  the  opening  blue; 

Swiftly  it  glanced,   and  settling,  softly  shone 
O'er  the  grave's  head;  in  that  same  instant  came 

From  the  near   copse   a   bird-song  half  divine; 

"  Heart,"   said   I,    "  Hush  thy   moan, 
List  the  bird's  singing,  mark  the  heaven-born  flame, 

God-given  are  these  —  an  omen  and  a  sign !  " 

In  the  bird's  song  an  omen  his  must  live ! 

In  the  warm  glittering  of  that  golden  beam, 
A  sign  his  soul's  majestic  hopes  survive, 

Raised  to   fruition   o'er  life's  weary  dream. 
So  now  I  leave  him,  low,  yet  restful  here; 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE  73 

So  now  I  leave  him,  high-exalted,   far 

Beyond  all  memory  of  earth's  guilt  or  guile; 
Hark !  'tis  his  voice  of  cheer, 

Dropping,   methinks,    from   some   mysterious   star; 
His  face  I  see,  and  on  his  face  —  a  smile! 


SONNET 

As  one  who  strays  from  out  some  shadowy  glade, 
Fronting  a  lurid  noontide,  stern,  yet  bright, 
O'er   mart    and   tower,    and   castellated   height, 
Shrinks  slowly  backward,  dazed  and  half  afraid  — 
So  I,  whose  household  gods  their  stand  have  made 
Far  from  the  populous  city's  life  and  light, 
Its  roar  of  traffic  and  its  stormy  might, 
Shrink  as  I  pass  beyond  my  woodland  shade. 

The  wordy  conflict,  the  tempestuous  din 

Of  these  vast  capitals,  on  ear  and  brain 

Beat  with  the  loud,  reiterated  swell 

Of  one  fierce  strain  of  passion  and  of  sin, 

Strange  as  in  nightmare  dreams  the  mad  refrain 

Of  some  wild  chorus  of  the  vaults  of  Hell. 


"74.  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

MY  STUDY 

THIS  is  my   world !   within  these  narrow  walls, 

I  own-  a  princely  service.     The  hot  care 

And  tumult  of  our  frenzied  life  are  here 

But  as  a  ghost  and  echo;  what  befalls 

In  the  far  mart  to  me  is  less  than  naught; 

I  walk  the  fields  of  quiet  Arcadies, 

And  wander  by  the  brink  of  hoary  seas, 

Calmed  to  the  tendance  of  untroubled  thought; 

Or  if  a  livelier  humor  should  enhance 

The  slow-time  pulse,  'tis  not  for  present  strife, 

The  sordid  zeal  with  which  our  age  is  rife, 

Its  mammon  conflicts  crowned  by  fraud  or  chance, 

But  gleamings  of  the  lost,  heroic  life, 

Flashed  through  the  gorgeous  vistas  of  romance. 

THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

At  Night 

A  GOLDEN  pallor  of  voluptuous  light 
Filled  the  warm  southern  night: 
The  moon,  clear  orbed,  above  the  sylvan  scene 
Moved  like  a  stately  queen, 
So  rife  with  conscious  beauty  all  the  while 
What  could  shr  do  but  smile 
At  her  own  perfect  loveliness  below, 
Glassed  in  the  tranquil  flow 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE  75 

Of  crystal  fountains  and  unruffled  streams? 

Half  lost  in  waking  dreams, 

As   down   the   loneliest    forest   dell   I   strayed, 

Lo !   from  a  neighboring  glade, 

Flashed  through  the  drifts  of  moonshine,  swiftly  came 

A  fairy  shape  of  flame. 

It  rose  in  dazzling  spirals  overhead, 

Whence  to  wild   sweetness  -wed, 

Poured  marvelous  melodies,  silvery  trill  on -trill; 

The  very  leaves  grew  still 

On  the  charmed  trees  to  hearken;  while  for  me, 

Heart-thrilled  to  ecstasy, 

I  followed  —  followed  the  bright  shape  that  flew, 

Still  circling  up  the  blue, 

Till  as  a   fountain  that  has  reached  its  height, 

Falls  back  in  sprays  of  light 

Slowly  dissolved,  so  that  enrapturing  lay, 

Divinely    melts    away 

Through  tremulous  spaces  to  a  music-mist, 

Soon  by  the  fitful  breeze 

How  gently  kissed 
Into  remote  and  tender  silences. 


76          WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE 
WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

(South  Carolina:  1856 ) 

AT  ANCHOR 

From    "  Sylvan    Lyrics  " 
MY  love  was  like  a  buoyant  boat, 

O'er  sunny  waves  at  sea; 
And,  in  the  voyage  of  my  heart, 

She  sailed  away  from  me. 

I  followed  in  her  flying  wake; 

The  waves  grew  strong  and  fleet; 
I   passed   by   shoals   of   circumstance, 

And  quicksands   of  defeat. 

But  little  winds  of  coquetry 

Still  kept  our  lives  apart, 
'Till,  in  my  cruise  of  love,  I  reached 

The  harbor  of  her  heart. 

rA  CYCLONE  AT  SEA 

A  THROAT  of  thunder,  a  tameless  heart, 

And  a  passion  malign  and  free; 
He  is  no  sheik  of  the  desert  sand, 

But  an  Arab  of  the  sea. 


WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE  77 

He  sprang  from  the  womb  of  some  wild  cloud, 

And  was  born  to  smite  and  slay ; 
To  soar  like  a  million  hawks  set  free, 

And  swoop  on  his  ocean  prey. 

He  has  scourged  the  Sea,  'till  her  mighty  breast 

Responds  to  his  heart's  fierce  beat; 
And  has  torn  brave  souls  from  their  bodies  frail 

To  fling  them  at  Allah's  feet. 

Possessed  by  a  demon's  lust  of  life, 

He  revels   o'er  wrecks   and  graves; 
And  hurtles  onward  in  curbless  speed, — 

Dark  Bedouin  of  the  waves. 

AN  AUTUMN  BREEZE 

THIS  gentle  and  half  melancholy  breeze 
Is  but  a  wandering  Hamlet  of  the  trees, 
Who  finds  a  tongue  in  every  lingering  leaf 
To  voice  some  subtlety  of  sylvan  grief. 

EXILES 

HOPES  grimly  banished  from  the  heart 
Are  the  sad  exiles  that  depart 
To  melancholy's  rayless  goal, — 
A  bleak  Siberia  of  the  soul. 


78  WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

ON  A  BUST  OF  MENDELSSOHN 

His  high-arched  brow  and  quiet  eyelids  seem 
Brushed  by  the  wings  of  some  celestial  dream, — 
A  bird  of  passage  whose  melodious  breath 
Dispersed  in  music  the  wan  mist  of  Death. 

POEM 

For  the  unveiling  of  the  bust  of  Sidney  Lanier,  at  Macon, 

Ga.,  Oct.   17,   1890. 

UNVEIL  the  noble  brow,  the  deep-souled  eyes, 
Wherein    melodious    unities 
Of  music  and  of  poetry  were  born, 
For,  undeterred  by  care's  half  sluggish  thorn  — 
Barbed  oft  with  suffering  —  he  bravely  brought 
To  song's  full  bloom  his  lyric  buds  of  thought. 

Here  Love  and  Homage  shall  alike  proclaim 
The  undying  whiteness  of  our  poet's  fame, 
Wed  to  the  marble,  yet  exempt  from  cold, 
As  winter's  clouds  blest  by  the  sun's  warm  gold. 

And  now  I  hear, 

Far  off  yet  clear, 
Two  voices  that  are  one; 
For,  drawing  close  to  music's  feet, 
'Tis  thus  her  lyric  sister  sweet 
Sings  of  their  cherished  son: 


WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE  79 

Strong-winged  and  free,  each  word  of  me 

Thrilled  through  his  heart  and  brain; 
His  soul  was  lit  by  lights  that  flit 

Across  the  waving  grain ! 

The  marshes  drear  he  made  a  prayer, 

With  words  whose  wondrous  flight 
Bore   thoughts    that   reach,    through   rhythmic    speech, 

To  sun-lands  of  sight ! 

He  let  no  seed  from  Doubt's  dark  weed 

Fall  in  the  holy  shrine 
Where  Song  was  bred,  by  Music  led 

To  beckoning  heights  divine; 

And  seldom  mute,  his  silver  flute 

Invoked  with  matchless  art, 
Each  wave  of  sound  by  Silence  bound 

Within  her  vestal  heart. 

Death's  arctic  fear  — "  a  cordial  rare  " 

To  his  enraptured  dream  — 
Came  from  the  blue  his  spirit  knew, 

Of  Love  and  Faith  supreme. 

His  "  Sunrise  Song,"  with  rapture  strong, 

Rose  like  a  lark  in  light, 
Who  feels  the  sway  of  sovereign  Day 

Reign  o'er  the  mists  of  Night ! 

He  loved  the  flow  of  winds  that  blow 
To  "  odor-currents  "  set,— 


80  WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

The  gem-like  hue  of  fleeting  dew, 
Frail  rose  and  violet, — 

The  soul  in  trees  whose  litanies 

His  reverent  spirit  heard; 
The  corn-blades  rife  with  vernal  life, 

The  rune  of  bee  or  bird ! 

Strong-winged  and  free,  each  word  of  me 
Thrilled  through  his  heart  and  brain, 

His  soul  was  lit  by  lights  that  flit 
Across  the  waving  grain. 

The  marshes  drear  he  made  a  prayer 

With  words,  whose  wondrous  flight 
Bore  thoughts,  that  reach,  through  rhythmic  speech 

To  sun-lands  out  of  sight ! 

SCANDAL 

FAR  blacker  than  a  raven's  wings, 
It  croaks  and  feeds  on  unclean  things, 
Nor  lets  the  shadow  of  a  doubt 
Soften  the  lie  it  burrows  out. 

With  tongue-blades  keener  than  a  knife, 
It  probes  the  bleeding  wounds  of  life, — 
Lays  bare  the  motive  and  the  deed, 
And  carrion  makes  from  flower-seed, 


WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE  81 

It  mangles  love,  and  smears  with  lust 
Lilies  of  purity  and  trust, — 
Battens  on  sins  of  king  or  slave, 
And  fouls  with  slime  a  new-made  grave. 


82  JAMES  BARRON  HOPE 


JAMES  BARRON  HOPE 

(Virginia:  1827-1887) 

THREE  SUMMER  STUDIES 
I 

THE  cock  hath  crow'd.     I  hear  the  doors  unbarr'd; 

Down  to  the  moss-grown  porch  my'  way  I  take, 
And  hear,  beside  the  well  within  the  yard, 

Full  many  an  ancient,  quacking,  splashing  drake, 
And  gabbling  goose,  and  noisy  brood-hen  —  all 
Responding   to   yon   strutting   gobbler's   call. 

The  dew  is  thick  upon  the  velvet  grass  — 
The  porch-rails  hold  it  in  translucent  drops, 

And  as  the  cattle   from   th'   enclosure  pass, 
Each  one,  alternate,  slowly  halts  and  crops 

The  tall,  green  spears,  with  all  their  dewy  load, 

Which  grow  beside  the  well-known  pasture-road. 

A  lustrous  polish  is  on  all  the  leaves  — 

The  birds  flit  in  and  out  with  varied  notes  — 

The  noisy  swallows  twitter  'neath  the  eaves  — 
A  partridge  whistle  through  the  garden  floats, 


JAMES  BARRON  HOPE 


While  yonder  gaudy  peacock  harshly  cries, 
As  red  and  gold  flush  all  the  eastern  skies. 

Up  comes  the  sun:  through  the  dense  leaves  a  spot 
Of  splendid  light  drinks  up  the  dew;  the  breeze 

Which  late  made  leafy  music  dies;  the  day  grows  hot, 
And  slumbrous  sounds  come  from  marauding  bees; 

The  burnished  river  like  a  sword  blade  shines, 

Save  where  'tis  shadowed  by  the  solemn  pines. 

II 

Over  the  farm  is  brooding  silence  now, — 
No   reaper's  song,  no  raven's  clangor  harsh, 

No  bleat  of  sheep,  no  distant  low  of  cow, 

No  croak  of  frogs  within  the  spreading  marsh, 

No  bragging  cock  from  littered  farmyard  crows, — 

The  scene  is  steeped  in  silence  and  repose. 

A  trembling  haze  hangs  over  all  the  fields, — 
The  panting  cattle  in  the  river  stand, 

Seeking  the  coolness  which  its  wave  scarce  yields. 
It  seems  a  Sabbath  through  the  drowsy  land: 

So  hushed  is  all  beneath  the  Summer's  spell, 

I  pause  and  listen  for  some  faint  church  bell. 

The  leaves  are  motionless,  the  song  bird's  mute  — 

The  very  air  seems   somnolent  and  sick: 
The  spreading  branches  with  o'erripened  fruit 


84  JAMES  BARRON  HOPE 

Show  in  the  sunshine  all  their  clusters  thick, 
While  now  and  then  a  mellow  apple  falls 
With  a  dull  sound  within  the  orchard's  walls. 

The  sky  has  but  one  solitary  cloud, 
Like  a  dark  island  in  a  sea  of  light; 

The  parching  furrows  'twixt  the  corn  rows  plowed 
Seem  fairly  dancing  in  my  dazzled  sight, 

While  over  yonder  road  a  dusty  haze 

Grows  reddish  purple  in  the  sultry  blaze. 


Ill 


That  solitary  cloud  grows  dark  and  wide, 
While  distant  thunder  rumbles  in  the  air, 

A  fitful  ripple  breaks  the  river's  tide  — 
The  lazy  cattle  are  no  longer  there, 

But   homeward   come   in   long  procession    slow, 

With  many  a  bleat  and  many  a  plaintive  low. 

Darker  and   wider   spreading  o'er   the   west 
Advancing  clouds,  each  in  fantastic  form, 

And  mirrored  turrets  on  the  river's  breast 
Tell  in  advance  the  coming  of  a  storm  — 

Closer  and  brighter  glares  the  lightning's  flash, 

And  louder,  nearer,  sounds  the  thunder's  crash. 

The  air  of  evening  is   intensely  hot, 

The  breeze  feels  heated  as  it  fans  my  brows; 


JAMES  BARRON  HOPE  85 

Now  sullen  raindrops  patter   down  like  shot, 

Strike  in  the  grass,  or  rattle  'mid  the  boughs. 
A  sultry  lull,  and  then  a  gust  again, 
And  now  I  see  the  thick-advancing  rain. 

It  fairly  hisses  as  it  comes  along, 

And  where  it  strikes  bounds  up  again  in  spray 
As  if  'twere  dancing  to  the  fitful  song 

Made  by  the  trees,  which  twist  themselves  and  sway 
In  contest  with  the  wind  which  rises  fast 
Until  the  breeze  becomes  a  furious  blast. 

And  now,  the  sudden,  fitful  storm  has  fled, 
The  clouds  lie  pil'd  up  in  the  splendid  west, 

In  massive   shadow  tipp'd  with  purplish   red, 
Crimson  or  gold.     The  scene  is  one  of  rest; 

And  on  the  bosom  of  yon  still  lagoon 

I  see  the  crescent  of  the  pallid  moon. 


86  EDWARD  ROWLAND 


EDWARD  ROWLAND 

(South  Carolina:  1832-1890) 

THE  CONDEMNED 

READ  me  no  moral,,  priest,  upon  my  life, — 

Reserve  that  for  your  flock. 
A  few  short  hours  will  end  my  mortal  strife, 

Upon  the  gallows  block. 

Before  the  gaping  crowd,  who  come  to  see 

A   fellow  mortal   die, 
Preach  if  you  choose,  and  take  your  text  from  me,- 

To  them  I  cannot  lie. 

And  still  the  less  can  I,  a  finite  man, 

Pretend  to  cheat  my  God: 
By  him  the  workings  of  his  mighty  plan 

Are  clearly  understood. 

Conceived  in  lust,  brought  up  in  sordid  sin, 

How  could  I  hope  to  be 
Aught  but  the  outcast  I  have  ever  been, 

Fruit  for  the  gallows  tree? 


EDWARD  HOWLAND  87 

Go  teach  the  children  swarming  through  the  town, 

To-day   exposed  to   all 
The  poverty  and  vice  that  drew  me  down,— 

Save  them  before  they   fall. 

But  as  for  me,  I  die  as  I  have  lived, 

As  all  men  must, 
Believing  as  I  always  have  believed 

That  God  is  just. 


88  CHARLES  W.  HUBNER 


CHARLES  W.  HUBNER 

(Georgia :    1835 ) 

I'M  GROWING  OLD 

I'M  growing  old;  and  yet  no  fear 
Of  death  or  grave  appalls  me; 

Still,  as  in  days  of  youth,  the  dear 
Sweet  love  of  life  enthralls  me; 

And  still  my  spirit  gladly  hears 

The  music  of  the  flying  years. 

I'm  growing  old;  my  hands,  my  limbs 

Less  supple  are,  less  light; 
And  sometimes  a  strange  mist  bedims  — 

By  tears  begot  —  my  sight, 
But  still  with  steady  steps  my  soul 
Fares  bravely  on  toward  her  goal. 

I'm  growing  old;  Life's  tree  has  shed 

Its  blossoms  long  ago; 
The  winds  that  blow  about  my  head 

Are  chill  with   sleet  and  snow, 
Yet   they,   in   some  mysterious  way, 
Still  bring  the  violet  scent  of  May. 


CHARLES  W.  HUBNER  89 

I'm  growing  old ;  alas !  so  far 

My  youth  behind  me  lies, 
It  seems  to  be  a  phantom-star 

In  dream-imagined  skies, 
And  yet  one  touch  of  Memory's  wand 
Transports  me  to  youth's  fairy-land. 

I'm  growing  old  —  how  swiftly  flies 
Time's  shuttle  through  the  loom! 

Weaving  before  my   very  eyes 
My   garment   for   the   tomb; 

Yet  fear  I  not,  nor  feel  I  pain, 

Beyond  the  grave  I'll  live  again! 

QUATRAINS 
The  World 

I  ASKED,  "  What  is  the  world  ?  "  and  you  replied, 
"  Myself  and  you,  by  millions  multiplied." 
I  said,  "  If  what  you  say  indeed  be  true, 
The  world  is  what  we  make  it,  I  and  you." 

Duty 

Executor  of  God's  almighty  will ! 
Thou,  who  His  laws  forever  dost  fulfill, 
O,  hold  my  heart,  my  will,  in  thy  control, 
And  stamp  thy  sacred  seal  upon  my  soul. 


90  CHARLES  W.  HUBNER 

Fame 

Is  it  worth  while  to  barter  life  for   Fame?- 
The   winged,    illusive   phantom   of    a   name, 
The  echo  of  a  sound  that  dies  at  last, 
Lost  in  ghost-haunted  deserts  of  the  Past. 

WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE 

WHEN  we  were  twenty-one,  O  Life, 
How  fair  you  seemed,  how  glorious! 
Hope's  banner  waving  o'er  us, 
The  whole  wide  world  before  us, 

We  scoffed  at  sorrow,  laughed  at  strife  - 
When  we  were  twenty-one. 

When  we  were  twenty-one,  the  flame 
Of  Youth's  desire  burned  brightly, 
Fair  Fancy's  feet  tripped  lightly, 
To  music  sweet  and  sprightly; 

We  dreamt  of  love,  of  wealth,  of  fame, 
When  we  were  twenty-one. 

When  we  were  twenty-one,  Romance 

Her  glamour  shed  about  us ; 

The  doubts  that  dared  to  flout  us, 

The  cares  that  rose  to  rout  us, 
We  slew  with  Love's  celestial  lance, 

When  we  were  twenty-one. 


CHARLES  W.  HUBNER  91 

When   we   were    twenty-one,    we   roved 

Through  lands  that  seemed  Elysian, 

Bewitched  by  many  a  vision, 

Despite  the  world's  derision; 
We  only  knew  we  lived  and  loved  — 

When  we  were  twenty-one. 

When  we  were  twenty-one,  alas ! 

So  real  looked  life's  seeming, 

So  bright  its  stars  were  beaming, 
.    How  could  we  help  our  dreaming? 
But  what  a  glorious  dream  it  was  — 

When  we  were  twenty-one. 


92  THOMAS  JEFFERSON 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON 

(Virginia:  1743-1826) 

LOVELY  PEGGY 

ONCE  more  I'll  tune  the  vocal  shell 
To  hills  and  dales  my  passion  tell, 
A  flame  which  time  can  never  quell 
That  burns  for  lovely  Peggy. 

Ye  greater  bards  the  lyre  should  hit, 
For  say  what  subject  is  more  fit 
Than  to  record  the  sparkling  wit 
And   bloom   of   lovely   Peggy. 

The  sun  first  rising  in  the  morn 
That  paints  the  dew-bespangled  thorn 
Does  not  so  much  the  day  adorn 
As  does  my  lovely  Peggy. 

And  when  in  Thetis'  lap  to  rest 
He  streaks  with  gold  the  ruddy  west, 
He's  not  so  beauteous  as  undrest 
Appears  my  lovely  Peggy. 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON  93 

With  her  a  cottage  would  delight, 
All's  happy  when  she's  in  my  sight, 
But  when  she's  gone,  'tis  endless  night, 
All's  dark  without  my  Peggy. 

The  Zephyr's  air  the  violet  blows 
Or  breath  upon  the  damask  rose  — 
He  does  not  half  the  sweets  disclose 
That  does  my  lovely  Peggy. 

I  stole  a  kiss  the  other  day, 
And  trust  me,  nought  but  truth  I  say, 
The  fragrant  breath  of  blooming  May 
Was  not  so  sweet  as  Peggy. 

While  bees  from  flow'r  to  flow'r  shall  rove, 
And  linnets  warble  through  the  grove, 
Or  stately  swans  the  waters  love, 
So  long  shall  I  love  Peggy. 

And  when  death  with  his  pointed  dart 
Shall  strike  the  blow  that  rives  my  heart, 
My  words  shall  be  when  I  depart, 
Adieu,   my   lovely   Peggy. 


FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY 


FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY 

(Maryland:  1780-1843) 

THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER 

OH  !  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last  gleam- 
ing? 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars  through  the  clouds 

of  the  fight 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were  so  gallantly  stream- 
ing! 

And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there ; 
O,  say,  does  that  Star-Spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

On  that  shore  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep, 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream; 
'Tis  the  Star-Spangled  banner;  O,  longmay  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 


FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY  95 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 
A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more? 
Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollu- 
tion. 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 
From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave; 
And  the  Star-Spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  i>rave. 

Oh !  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  home  and  the  war's  desolation ! 
Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heaven-rescued  land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a 

nation ! 

Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto — "In  God  is  our  Trust" — 
And  the  Star-Spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 


96  SIDNEY  LANIER 


SIDNEY  LANIER 

(Georgia:  1842-1881) 

A  BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE  MASTER 

INTO  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

Clean  forspent,  forspent. 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Forspent  with  love  and  shame. 

But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  Him, 

The  little  gray  leaves  were  kind  to  Him: 

The  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  Him 

When   into  the   woods  He  came. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

And  He  was  well  content. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Content  with  death  and  shame. 

When  Death  and  Shame  would  woo  Him  last, 

From  under  the  trees  they  drew  Him  last: 

'Twas  on  a  tree  they  slew  Him  —  last 

When  out  of  the  woods  He  came. 


SIDNEY  LANIER  97 

AN  EVENING  SONG 

LOOK  off,  dear  love,  across  the  sallow  sands, 
And  mark  yon  meeting  of  the  sun  and  sea, 

How  long  they  kiss  in  sight  of  all  the  lands, 
Ah  !  longer  we ! 

Now  in  the  sea's  red  vintage  melts  the  sun, 
As  Egypt's  pearl  dissolved  in  rosy  wine, 

And  Cleopatra  night  drinks  all.  'T  is  done, 
Love,  lay  thine  hand  in  mine. 

Come  forth,  sweet  stars,  and  comfort  heaven's  heart; 

Glimmer,  ye  waves,  round  else  unlighted  sands; 
O  night !  divorce  our  sun  and  sky  apart  — 

Never  our  lips,  our  hands. 

SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE 

OUT   of  the   hills   of   Habersham, 

Down   the   valleys   of   Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall 


98  SIDNEY  LANIER 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried,  Abide,  abide, 
The  willful  waterweeds  held  me  thrall. 
The  laving  laurels  turned  my  tide, 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said,  Stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed,  Abide,  abide, 

Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning,   with  flickering  meaning  and  sign, 
Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 

The  white  quartz  shone,   and  the  smooth  brook-stone 
Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 
And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone 
—  Crystals  clear  or  a-cloud  with  mist, 


SIDNEY  LANIER  99 

Ruby,   garnet,   and  amethyst  — 

Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  stone 

In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 
Avail :  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call  — 
Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main, 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 

Calls  o'er  the  hills  of   Habersham, 

Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

SUNRISE 

IN  my  sleep  I  was  fain  of  their  fellowship,  fain 
Of  the  live-oak,  the  marsh,  and  the  main. 

The  little  green  leaves  would  not  let  me  alone  in  my  sleep ; 

Up-breathed  from  the  marshes,  a  message  of  range  and  of 
sweep, 

Interwoven  with  waftures  of  wild  sea-liberties,  drifting, 
Came  through  the  lapped  leaves  sifting,  sifting, 
Came  to  the  gates  of  sleep. 

Then .  my  thoughts,  in  the  dark  of  the  dungeon-keep 

Of  the  Castle  of  Captives  hid  in  the  City  of  Sleep, 


100  SIDNEY  LANIER 

Upstarted,  by  twos  and  by  threes  assembling: 

The  gates  of  sleep  fell  a-trembling 
Like  as  the  lips  of  a  lady  that  forth  falter  yes. 
Shaken  with  happiness : 

The  gates  of  sleep  stood  wide. 

I  have  waked,  I  have  come,  my  beloved!   I  might  not 

abide : 
I  have  come  ere  the  dawn,  O  beloved,  my  live-oaks,  to 

hide 

In  your  gospeling  glooms, —  to  be 
As  a  lover  in  heaven,  the  marsh  my  marsh  and  the  sea 

my  sea. 

Tell  me,  sweet  burly-bark'd,  man-bodied  Tree 
That  mine  arms  in  the  dark  are  embracing,  dost  know 
From  what  fount  are  these  tears  at  thy  feet  which  flow? 
They  rise  not  from  reason,  but  deeper  inconsequent  deeps. 

Reason's  not   one  that  weeps. 
What  logic  of  greeting  lies 
Betwixt  dear  over-beautiful  trees  and  the  rain  of  the  eyes  ? 

O  cunning  green  leaves,  little  masters !  like  as  ye  gloss 
All  the  dull-tissued  dark  with  your  luminous  darks  that 

emboss 
The  vague  blackness  of  night  into  pattern  and  plan, 

So, 
(But  would  I  could  know,  but  would  I  could  know,) 


SIDNEY  LANIER  101 

With  your  question  embroid'ring  the  dark  of  the  ques- 
tion of  man, — 

So,  with  your  silences  purfling  this  silence  of  man 
While  his  cry  to  the  dead  for  some  knowledge  is  under 
the  ban, 

Under  the  ban, — 
So,  ye  have  wrought  me 

Designs  on  the  night  of  our  knowledge, —  yea,  ye  have 
taught  me, 

So, 
That  haply  we  know  somewhat  more  than  we  know. 


Ye  lispers,  whisperers,  singers  in  storms, 
Ye  consciences  murmuring  faiths  under  forms, 
Ye  ministers  meet  for  each  passion  that  grieves, 
Friendly,  sisterly,  sweetheart  leaves, 
Oh,  rain  me  down  from  your  darks  that  contain  me 
Wisdoms  ye  winnow  from  winds  that  pain  me, — 
Sift  down  tremors  of  sweet-within-sweet 
That  advise  me  of  more  than  they  bring, —  repeat 
Me  the  woods-smell  that  swiftly  but  now  brought  breath 
From  the  heaven-side  bank  of  the  river  of  death, — 
Teach  me  the  terms  of  silence, —  preach  me 
The  passion  of  patience, —  sift  me, —  impeach  me, — 

And  there,  oh  there 

As  ye  hang  with  your  myriad  palms  upturned  in  the  air, 
Pray  me  a  myriad  prayer. 


102  SIDNEY  LANIER 

My  gossip,  the  owl, —  is  it  thou 
That  out  of  the  leaves  of  the  low-hanging  bough, 
As  I  pass  to  the  beach,  art  stirred? 
Dumb  woods,  have  ye  uttered  a  bird? 


Reverend  Marsh,  low-couched  along  the  sea, 

Old   chemist,   rapt   in   alchemy, 

Distilling    silence, —  lo, 
That  which  our  father-age  had  died  to  know  — 

The  menstruum  that  dissolves  all  matter  —  thou 
Hast  found  it;  for  this  silence,  filling  now 
The   globed   clarity   of   receiving  space, 
This  solves  us  all :  man,  matter,  doubt,  disgrace, 
Death,  love,  sin,  sanity, 
Must  in  yon  silence'  clear  solution  lie. 
Too  clear  !     That  crystal  nothing  who'll  peruse  ? 
The  blackest  night  could  bring  us  brighter  news. 
Yet  precious  qualities  of  silence  haunt 
Round  these  vast  margins,  ministrant. 
Oh,  if  thy  soul's  at  latter  gasp  for  space, 
With  trying  to  breathe  no  bigger  than  thy  race 
Just  to  be  fellow'd,  when  that  thou  hast  found 
No  man  with  room,  or  grace  enough  of  bound 
To  entertain  that  New  thou  tell'st,  thou  art, — 
'T  is  here,  't  is  here  thou  canst  unhand  thy  heart 
And  breathe  it  free,  and  breathe  it  free, 
By  rangy  marsh,  in  lone  sea-liberty. 


SIDNEY  LANIER  103 

The  tide  's  at  full:  the  marsh  with  flooded  streams 

Glimmers,  a  limpid  labyrinth  of  dreams. 

Each  winding  creek  in  grave  enhancement  lies 

A  rhapsody  of  morning-stars.     The  skies 

Shine  scant  with  one  forked  galaxy, — 

The  marsh  brags  ten :  looped  on  his  breast  they  lie. 

Oh,  what  if  a  sound  should  be  made ! 

Oh,  what  if  a  bound  should  be  laid 

To    this    bow-and-string   tension    of    beauty    and    silence 

a-spring,— 
To  the  bend  of  beauty  the  bow,  or  the  hold  of  silence  the 

string ! 

I  fear  me,  I  fear  me  yon  dome  of  diaphanous  gleam 
Will  break  as  a  bubble  o'er-blown  in  a  dream, — 
Yon  dome  of  too-tenuous  tissues  of  space  and  of  night, 
Over-weighted  with  stars,  over-freighted  with  light, 
Over-sated  with  beauty  and  silence,  will  seem 

But  a  bubble  that  broke  in  a  dream, 
If  a  bound  of  degree  to  this  grace  be  laid, 

Or  a  sound  or  a  motion  made. 

But  no :  it  is  made :  list !  somewhere, —  mystery,  where  ? 

In  the  leaves?  in  the  air? 
In  my  heart?  is  a  motion  made; 

'T  is  a  motion  of  dawn,  like  a  flicker  of  shade  on  shade. 
In  the  leaves,  't  is  palpable :  low  multitudinous   stirring 
Upwinds  through  the  woods;  the  little  ones,  softly  con- 
ferring, 


104  SIDNEY  LANIER 

Have  settled  my  lord's  to  be  looked  for;   so;  they  are 

still; 

But  the  air  and  my  heart  and  the  earth  are  a-thrill, — 
And  look  where  the  wild  duck  sails  round  the  bend  of 

the  river, — 

And  look  where  a  passionate  shiver 
Expectant  is  bending  the  blades 

Of  the  marsh-grass  in  serial  shimmers  and  shades, — 
And  invisible  wings,  fast  fleeting,  fast  fleeting, 

Are  beating 
The  dark  overhead  as  my  heart  beats, — and  steady  and 

free 

Is  the  ebb-tide  flowing  from  marsh  to  sea — 
(Run  home,  little  streams, 
With  your  lapfuls  of  stars  and  dreams), — 
And  a  sailor  unseen  is  hoisting  a-peak, 
For  list,  down  the  inshore  curve  of  the  creek 

How  merrily  flutters  the  sail, — 
And  lo,  in  the  East !     Will  the  East  unveil  ? 
The  East  is  unveiled,  the  East  hath  confessed 
A  flush;  't  is  dead;  't  is  alive;  't  is  dead,  ere  the  West 
Was  aware  of  it ;  nay,  't  is  abiding,  't  is  unwithdrawn : 
Have  a  care,  sweet  Heaven !     'T  is  Dawn. 

Now  a  dream  of  a  flame  through  that  dream  of  a  flush 

is  uprolled; 

To  the  zenith  ascending,  a  dome  of  undazzling  gold 
Is  builded,  in  shape  as  a  bee-hive,  from  out  of  the  sea; 


SIDNEY  LANIER  105 

The  hive  is  of  gold  undazzling,  but  oh,  the  Bee, 

The  star-fed  Bee,  the  build-fire  Bee, 

Of  dazzling  gold  is  the  great  Sun-Bee 
That  shall  flash  from  the  hive-hole  over  the  sea. 


Yet  now  the  dew-drop,  now  the  morning  gray, 

Shall  live  their  little  lucid  sober  day 

Ere  with  the  sun  their  souls  exhale  away. 
Now  in  each  pettiest  personal  sphere  of  dew 
The  summ'd  morn  shines  complete  as  in  the  blue 
Big  dew-drop  of  all  heaven;  with  these  lit  shrines 
O'er-silvered  to  the  farthest  sea-confines, 
The  sacramental  marsh  one  pious  plain 
Of  worship  lies.     Peace  to  the  ante-reign 
Of  Mary  Morning,  blissful  mother  mild, 
Minded  of  nought  but  peace,  and  of  a  child. 
Not   slower    than    Majesty    moves,    for    a   mean    and    a 

measure 

Of  motion, —  not  faster  than  dateless  Olympian  leisure 
Might  pace  with  unblown  ample  garments  from  pleasure 

to  pleasure, — 
The  wave-serrate  sea-rim  sinks  unjarring,  unreeling, 

Forever  revealing,  revealing,  revealing, 
Edgewise,  bladewise,  halfwise,  wholewise, — 't  is  done ! 

Good-morrow,  lord  Sun ! 
With  several  voice,  with  ascription  one, 
The  woods  and  the  marsh  and  the  sea  and  my  soul 


106  SIDNEY  LANIER 

Unto  thee,  whence  the  glittering  stream  of  all  morrows 

doth  roll/ 
Cry  good  and  past-good  and  most  heavenly  morrow,  lord 

Sun. 

O  Artisan  born  in  the  purple, —  Workman  Heat, — 

Parter  of  passionate  atoms  that  travail  to  meet 

And    be    mixed    in    the    death-cold    oneness, —  innermost 

Guest 
At    the    marriage    of    elements, —  fellow    of    publicans, — 

blest 

King  in  the  blouse  of  flame,  that  loiterest  o'er 
The  idle  skies  yet  laborest  fast  evermore, — 
Thou,  in  the  fine  forge-thunder,  thou,  in  the  beat 
Of  the  heart  of  a  man,  thou  Motive, —  Laborer  Heat: 
Yea,  Artist,  thou,  of  whose  art  yon  sea  's  all  news, 
With  his  inshore  greens  and  manifold  mid-sea  blues, 
Pearl-glint,  shell-tint,  ancientest  perfectest  hues 
Ever  shaming  the  maidens, —  lily  and  rose 
Confess  thee,  and  each  mild  flame  that  glows 
In  the  clarified  virginal  bosoms  of  stones  that  shine, 
It  is  thine,  it  is  thine: 

Thou    chemist    of    storms,    whether    driving    the    winds 

a-swirl 

Or  a-flicker  the  subtiler  essences  polar  that  whirl 
In  the  magnet  earth, —  yea,  thou  with  a  storm  for  a  heart, 
Rent  with  debate,  many-spotted  with  question,  part 


SIDNEY  LANIER  107 

From  part  oft  sundered,  yet  ever  a  globed  light, 

Yet  ever  the  artist,  ever  more  large  and  bright 

Than  the  eye  of  a  man  may  avail  of:  —  manifold  One, 

I  must  pass  from  thy  face,  I  must  pass  from  the  face  of 

the  Sun; 

Old  Want  is  awake  and  agog,  every  wrinkle  a-frown; 
The  worker  must  pass  to  his  work  in  the  terrible  town; 
But  I  fear  not,  nay,  and  I  fear  not  the  thing  to  be  done; 

I  am  strong  with  the  strength  of  my  lord  the  Sun; 
How  dark,  how  dark  soever  the  race  that  must  needs  be 

run, 

I  am  lit  with  the  sun. 

Oh,  never  the  mast-high  run  of  the  seas 

Of  traffic  shall  hide  thee, 
Never  the  hell-colored  smoke  of  the  factories 

Hide  thee, 
Never  the  reek  of  the  time's  fen-politics 

Hide  thee, 

And  ever  my  heart  through  the  night  shall  with  knowl- 
edge abide  thee, 
And  ever  by  day  shall  my  spirit,  as  one  that  hath  tried 

thee, 

Labor,  at  leisure,  in  art, —  till  yonder  beside  thee 
My  soul  shall  float,  friend  Sun, 
The  day  being  done.  - 


108  SIDNEY  LANIER 

THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN 

GLOOMS  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven 
With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that  myriad-cloven 
Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs, — 
Emerald  twilights, — 
Virginal  shy  lights, 

Wrought  of  the  leaves  to  allure  to  the  whisper  of  vows, 
When  lovers  pace  timidly  down  through  the  green  colon- 
nades 
Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark  woods, 

Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades, 
That  run  to  the  radiant  marginal  sand-beach  within 
The  wide  sea-marshes  of  Glynn; — 

Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noonday  fire, — 

Wildwood  privacies,  closets  of  lone  desire, 

Chamber   from  chamber  parted  with  wavering  arras  of 

leaves, — 
Cells   for  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer   to  the   soul 

that  grieves, 
Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints  through  the 

wood, 
Cool  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with  good; — 

O  braided   dusks   of   the   oak   and   woven   shades   of  the 

vine, 
While  the  riotous  noonday  sun  of  the  June-day  long  did 

shine 


SIDNEY  LANIER  109 

Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held  you   fast  in 

mine; 

But  now  when  the  noon  is  no  more,  and  riot  is  rest, 
And  the  sun  is  a-wait  at  the  ponderous  gate  of  the  West, 
And  the  slant  yellow  beam  down  the  wood-aisle  doth  seem 
Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from  a  dream, — 
Ay,  now,  when  my  soul  all  day  hath  drunken  the  soul  of 

the  oak, 
And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and  the  wearisome 

sound  of  the  stroke 

Of  the  scythe  of  time  and  the  trowel  of  trade  is  low, 
And  belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know  that  I  know, 
And  my  spirit  is  grown  to  a  lordly  great  compass  within, 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 

marshes  of  Glynn 
Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they  have  wrought  me 

of  yore 

When  length  was  fatigue,  and  when  breadth  was  but  bit- 
terness sore, 
And  when  terror   and   shrinking  and   dreary  unnamable 

pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  miles  of  the  plain, — 

Oh,  now,  unafraid,  I  am  fain  to  face 

The  vast  sweet  visage  of  space. 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I  am  drawn, 
Where  the  gray  beach  glimmering  runs,  as  a  belt  of  the 
dawn, 


110  SIDNEY  LANIER 

For  a  mete  and  a  mark 
To  the  forest-dark:  — 
So: 

Affable  live-oak,  leaning  low, — 

Thus  —  with  your  favor  —  soft,  with  a  reverent  hand, 
(Not  lightly  touching  your  person,  Lord  of  the  land!) 
Bending  your  beauty  aside,  with  a  step  I  stand 
On  the  firm-packed  sand, 

Free 
By  a  world  of  marsh  that  borders  a  world  of  sea. 

Sinuous   southward   and   sinuous   northward  the   shim- 
mering band 
Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of  the  marsh  to  the 

folds  of  the  land. 
Inward   and   outward   to   northward   and   southward   the 

beach-lines  linger  and  curl 
As  a  silver-wrought  garment  that  clings  to  and  follows 

the  firm  sweet  limbs  of  a  girl. 

Vanishing,  swerving,  evermore  .curving  again  into  sight, 
Softly  the  sand-beach  wavers  away  to  a  dim  gray  looping 

of  light. 
And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the  wall  of  the  woods 

stands  high? 
The  world  lies  east :  how  ample,  the  marsh  and  the  sea  and 

the  sky! 

A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh-grass,  waist-high,  broad 
in  the  blade, 


SIDNEY  LANIER  111 

Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with  a  light  or 

a  shade, 

Stretch  leisurely  off,  in  a  pleasant  plain, 
To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main. 

Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal  sea? 

Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of  sin, 
By  the   length   and  the   breadth   and  the   sweep   of  the 
marshes  of  Glynn. 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  nothing-withhold- 
ing and  free 

Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer  yourselves  to 
the  sea! 

Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  rains  and  the 
sun, 

Ye  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic  man  who  hath 
mightily  won 

God  out  of  knowledge  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain 

And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out  of  a  stain. 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery  sod, 
Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God: 
I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the  marsh-hen  flies 
In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  the  space  'twixt  the  marsh  and 

the  skies: 

By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-grass  sends  in  the  sod 
I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  greatness  of  God: 


SIDNEY  LANIER 


Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the  greatness  within 
The  range  of  the  marshes,  the  liberal  marshes  of  Glynn. 

And  the  sea   lends  large,   as   the  marsh:   lo,   out  of  his 

plenty  the  sea 

Pours  fast  :  full  soon  the  time  of  the  floodtide  must  be  ; 
Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and  about  through  the  intricate  channels  that  flow 
Here  and  there, 
Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks  and  the 

low-lying  lanes, 

And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins, 
That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences  flow 
In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 

Farewell,  my  lord  Sun  ! 

The  creeks  overflow:  a  thousand  rivulets  run 
'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod  ;  the  blades  of  the  marsh-grass 

stir; 

Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  westward  whirr; 
Passeth,  and  all  is  still;  and  the  currents  cease  to  run; 
And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 


How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be ! 

The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy; 

The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height; 

And  it  is  night. 


SIDNEY  LANIER  113 

And  now  from  the  Vast  of  the  Lord  will  the  waters  of 

sleep 

Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men, 
But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 
The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that  creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep? 
And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swimmeth  below  when 

the  tide  comes  in 
On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  marvelous  marshes 

of  Glynn. 


114         JAMES  MATTHEWS  LEGARE 


JAMES  MATTHEWS  LEGARE 

(South  Carolina:   1823-1859) 

TO  A  LILY 

Go  bow  thy  head  in  gentle  spite, 
Thou  lily  white, 

For  she  who  spies  thee  waving  here, 
With  thee  in  beauty  can  compare 
As  day  with  night. 

Soft  are  thy  leaves  and  white :  her  arms 
Boast  whiter  charms. 
Thy  stem  prone  bent  with  loveliness 
Of  maiden  grace  possesseth  less: 
Therein  she  charms. 

Thou  in  thy  lake  dost  see 
Thyself:  so  she 

Beholds  her  image  in  her  eyes 
Reflected.     Thus  did  Venus  rise 
From  out  the  sea. 


JAMES  MATTHEWS  LEGARE          115 


Inconsolate,  bloom  not  again. 

Thou  rival  vain 

Of  her  whose  charms  have  thine  outdone, 

Whose  purity  might  spot  the  sun, 

And  make  thy  leaf  a  stain. 


116  JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 


JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 

(North  Carolina:  1874-1907) 

A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN 

NEAR  where  the  shepherds  watched  by  night 

And  heard  the  angels  o'er  them, 
The  wise  men  saw  the  starry  light 

Stand  still  at  last  before  them. 
No  armored  castle  there  to  ward 

His  precious  life  from  danger, 
But,  wrapped  in  common  cloth,  our  Lord 

Lay  in  a  lowly  manger. 
No  booming  bells  proclaimed  his  birth, 

No  armies  marshaled  by, 
No  iron  thunders  shook  the  earth, 

No  rockets  clomb  the  sky; 
The  temples  builded  in  his  name 

Were  shapeless  granite  then, 
And  all  the  choirs  that  sang  his  fame 

Were  later  breeds  of  men. 
But,  while  the  world  about  him  slept, 

Nor  cared  that  he  was  born, 
One  gentle  face  above  him  kept 

Its  mother  watch  till  morn; 


JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL  117 

And,  if  his  baby  eyes  could  tell 

What  grace  and  glory  were, 
No  roar  of  gun,  no  boom  of  bell 

Were  worth  the  look  of  her. 
Now  praise  to  God  that  ere  his  grace 

Was  scorned  and  he  reviled 
He  looked  into  his  mother's  face, 

A  little  helpless  child; 
And  praise  to  God  that  ere  men  strove 

About  his  tomb  in  war 
One  loved  him  with  a  mother's  love 

Nor  knew  a  creed  therefor. 

A  FEW  DAYS  OFF 

I  AIN'T  gwine  a  work  till  my  dyin'  day; 

'F  I  ever  lays  up  enough, 
I's  gwine  a  go  off  a  while  en  stay ; 

I'll  be  takin'  a  few  days  off. 
'Ca'se  de  jimson  weeds  don't  bloom  but  once, 

En  when  dey's  shed  dey's  shed; 
En  when  you's  dead,  'tain't  jis'  a  few  mont's, 

But  you's  gwine  be  a  long  time  dead. 

I  knowed  a'  ol'  man  died  powerful  rich  — 

Two  mules  en  Ian'  en  a  cow. 
I  jus'  soon  die  fum  fallin'  in  a  ditch, 

Fur  he  went  to's  grave  fum's  plough. 


118  JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 

He  never  had  nothin'  'twas  good  to  eat 

Ner  no  piller  upon  his  bed; 
He  never  took  time  to  dance  wid  his  feet, 

But  he's  gwine  a  take  long  time  dead. 

I  know  a'  ol'  woman  wut  scrubbed  and  hoed, 

En  never  didn'  go  nowhar, 
En  when  she  died  de  people  'knowed 

Dat  she  had  supp'n  hid  'bout  dar. 
She  mought  a  dressed  up  en  a-done  supp'n' 
wrong 

En  had  'er  a  coht-case  ple'd; 
But  she  didn'  have  time  to  live  veh  long; 

She's  gwine  have  a  plenty  dead. 

So  I  says,  if  I  manage  to  save  enough 

Frum  de  wages  I  gits  dis  yur, 
I  is  right  den  takin'  a  few  days  off 

At  one  time  en  an'er. 
'Ca'se  while  I  is  got  my  mouf  en  eyes 

En  a  little  wheel  in  my  head, 
I's  gwine  a  live  fas',  fer  when  I  dies 

I'll  sho'  be  a  long  time  dead. 

DAWN 

THE  hills  again  reach  skyward  with  a  smile. 

Again,  with  waking  life  along  its  way, 
The  landscape  marches  westward  mile  on  mile 

And  time  throbs  white  into  another  day. 


JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL  119 

Though  eager  life  must  wait  on  livelihood, 
And  all  our  hopes  be  tethered  to  the  mart, 

Lacking  the  eagle's  wild,  high  freedom,  would 
That  ours  might  be  this  day  the  eagle's  heart ! 


THE  BRIDE 

THE  little  white  bride  is  left  alone 

With  him,  her  lord;  the  guests  have  gone; 

The  festal  hall  is  dim. 
No  jesting  now,  nor  answering  mirth. 
The  hush  of  sleep  falls  on  the  earth 

And  leaves  her  here  with  him. 

Why  should  there  be,  O  little  white  bride, 
When  the  world  has  left  you  by  his  side, 

A  tear  to  brim  your  eyes? 
Some  old  love-face  that  comes  again, 
Some  old  love-moments  sweet  with  pain 

Of  passionate  memories? 

Does  your  heart  yearn  back  with  last  regret 
For  the  maiden  meads  of  mignonette 

And  the  fairy-haunted  wood, 
That  you  had  not  withheld  from  love, 
A  little  while,  the  freedom  of 

Your  happy  maidenhood? 


120  JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 

Or  is  it  but  a  nameless  fear, 

A  wordless  joy,  that  calls  the  tear 

In  dumb  appeal  to  rise, 
When,  looking  on  him  where  he  stands, 
You  yield  up  all  into  his  hands, 

Pleading  into  his  eyes? 

For  days  that  laugh  or  nights  that  weep 
You  two  strike  oars  across  the  deep 

With  life's  tide  at  the  brim; 
And  all  time's  beauty,  all  love's  grace 
Beams,  little  bride,  upon  your  face 

Here,  looking  up  at  him. 


THE  RATTLESNAKE 

COILED  like  a  clod,  his  eyes  the  home  of  hate, 
Where  rich  the  harvest  bows,  he  lies  in  wait, 
Linking  earth's  death  and  music,  mate  with  mate. 

Is't  lure,  or  warning?     Those  small  bells  may  sing 
Like  Ariel  sirens,  poised  on  viewless  wing, 
To  lead  stark  life  where  mailed  death  is  king; 

Else  nature's  voice,  in  that  cold,  earthy  thrill, 
Bids  good  avoid  the  venomed  fang  of  ill, 
And  life  and  death  fight  equal  in  her  will. 


JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 


THE  WIFE 

THEY  locked  him  in  a  prison  cell, 

Murky  and  mean. 
She  kissed  him  there  a  wife's  farewell, 

The  bars  between. 

And  when  she  turned  to  go,  the  crowd, 
Thinking  to  see  her  shamed  and  bowed, 
Saw  her  pass  out  as  calm  and  proud 

As  any  queen. 

She  passed  a  kinsman  on  the  street, 

To  whose  sad  eyes 
She  made  reply  with  smile  as  sweet 

As  April  skies. 

To  one  who  loved  her  once  and  knew 
The  sorrow  of  her  life,  she  threw 
A  gay  word,  ere  his  tale  was  due 

Of  sympathies. 

She  met  a  playmate,  whose  red  rose 

Had  never  a  thorn, 
Whom  fortune  guided  when  she  chose 

Her  marriage  morn, 
And,  smiling,  looked  her  in  the  eyes; 
But,  seeing  the  tears  of  sympathy, 
Her  smile  died,  and  she  passed  on  by 

In  quiet  scorn. 


JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 


They  could  not  know  how,  when  by  night 

The  city  slept, 
A  sleepless  woman,  still  and  white, 

The  watches  kept; 
How  her  wife-loyal  heart  had  borne 
The  keen  pain  of  a  flowerless  thorn, 
How  hot  the  tears  that  smiles  and  scorn 

Had  held  unwept. 


TRIFLES 

WHAT  shall  I  bring  you,  sweet? 

A  posy  prankt  with  every  April  hue: 

The  cloud-white  daisy,  violet  sky-blue, 

Shot  with  the  primrose  sunshine  through  and  through  ? 

Or  shall  I  bring  you,  sweet, 

Some  ancient  rhyme  of  lovers  sore  beset, 
Whose  joy  is  dead,  whose  sadness  lingers  yet, 
That  you  may  read,  and  sigh,  and  soon  forget? 

What  shall  I  bring  you,  sweet? 
Was  ever  trifle  yet  so  held  amiss 
As  not  to  fill  love's  waiting  heart  with  bliss, 
And  merit  dalliance  at  a  long,  long  kiss? 


JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL  123 

VALENTINE 

THIS  is  the  time  for  birds  to  mate; 

To-day  the  dove 
Will  mark  the  ancient  amorous  date 

With  moans  of  love; 
The  crow  will  change  his  call  to  prate 

His  hopes  thereof. 

The  starling  will  display  the  red 

That  lights  his  wings; 
The  wren  will  know  the  sweet  things  said 

By  him  who  swings 
And  ducks  and  dips  his  crested  head 

And  sings  and  sings. 

They  are  obedient  to  their  blood, 

Nor  ask  a  sign, 
Save  buoyant  air  and  swelling  bud, 

At  hands   divine, 
But  choose,  each  in  the  barren  wood, 

His  valentine. 

In  caution's  maze  they  never  wait 

Until  they  die; 
They  flock  the  season's  open  gate 

Ere  time  steals  by. 
Love,  shall  we  see  and  imitate, 

You,  love,  and  I? 


JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL 


TWO  PICTURES 

ONE  sits  in  soft  light,  where  the  hearth  is  warm, 
A  halo,  like  an  angel's,  on  her  hair. 

She  clasps  a  sleeping  infant  in  her  arm. 
A  holy  presence  hovers  round  her  there, 
And  she,  for  all  her  mother-pains  more  fair,    . 

Is  happy,  seeing  that  all  sweet  thoughts  that  stir 

The  hearts  of  men  bear  worship  unto  her. 

Another  wanders  where  the  cold  wind  blows, 
Wet-haired,  with  eyes  that  sting  one  like  a  knife. 

Homeless  forever,  at  her  bosom  close 

She  holds  the  purchase  of  her  love  and  life, 
Of  motherhood,  unglorified  as  wife; 

And  bitterer  than  the  world's  relentless  scorn 

The  knowing  her  child  were  happier  never  born. 

Whence  are  the  halo  and  the  fiery  shame 

That  fashion  thus  a  crown  and  curse  of  love? 

Have  roted  words  such  power  to  bless  and  blame? 
Ay,  men  have  stained  a  raven  from  many  a  dove, 
And  all  the  grace  and  all  the  grief  hereof 

Are  the  two  words  which  bore  one's  lips  apart 

And  which  the  other  hoarded  in  her  heart. 

He  who  stooped  down  and  wrote  upon  the  sand, 

The  God-heart  in  him  touched  to  tenderness, 

Saw  deep,  saw  what  we  can  not  understand,  — 


JOHN  CHARLES  McNEILL  125 

We,  who  draw  near  the  shrine  of  one  to  bless 
The  while  we  scourge  another's  sore  distress, 

And  judge  like  gods  between  the  ill  and  good, 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  womanhood. 


126  WALTER  MALONE 


WALTER  MALONE 

(Mississippi :   1866 ) 

OCTOBER  IN  TENNESSEE 

FAR,  far  away,  beyond  a  hazy  height, 

The  turquoise  skies  are  hung  in  dreamy  sleep; 

Below,  the  fields  of  cotton,  fleecy-white, 
Are  spreading  like  a  mighty  flock  of  sheep. 

Now,  like  Aladdin  of  the  days  of  old, 

October  robes  the  weeds  in  purple  gowns; 

He  sprinkles  all  the  sterile  fields  with  gold, 
And  all  the  rustic  trees  wear  royal  crowns. 

The  straggling  fences  all  are  interlaced 

With  pink  and  azure  morning-glory  blooms, 

The  starry  asters  glorify  the  waste, 

While  grasses  stand  on  guard  with  pikes  and  plumes. 

Yet  still  amid  the  splendor  of  decay 

The  chill  winds  call  for  blossoms  that  are  dead, 

The  cricket  chirps  for  sunshine  passed  away, 
And  lovely  Summer  songsters  that  have  fled. 

And  lonesome  in  a  haunt  of  withered  vines, 
Amid  the  flutter  of  her  withered  leaves, 


WALTER  MALONE  127 

Pale  Summer  for  her  perished  Kingdom  pines, 
And  all  the  glories  of  her  golden  sheaves. 

In  vain  October  woos  her  to  remain 
Within  the  palace  of  his  scarlet  bowers, 

Entreats  her  to  forget  her  heart-break  pain, 
And  weep  no  more  above  her  faded  flowers. 

At  last  November,  like  a  Conqueror,  comes 

To  storm  the  golden  city  of  his  foe; 
We  hear  his  rude  winds,  like  the  roll  of  drums, 

Bringing  their  desolation  and  their  woe. 

The  sunset,  like  a  vast  vermilion  flood, 
Splashes  its  giant  glowing  waves  on  high, 

The  forest  flames  with  foliage  red  as  blood, 
A  conflagration  sweeping  to  the  sky. 

Then  all  the  treasures  of  that  brilliant  state 
Are  gathered  in  a  mighty  funeral  pyre; 

October,  like  a  King  resigned  to  fate, 
Dies  in  his  forest,  with  their  sunset  fire. 

OPPORTUNITY 

THEY  do  me  wrong  who  say  I  come  no  more 
When  once  I  knock  and  fail  to  find  you  in; 

For  every  day  I  stand  outside  your  door, 
And  bid  you  wake,  and  rise  to  fight  and  win. 


128  WALTER  M ALONE 

Wail  not  for  precious  chances  past  away, 

Weep  not  for  golden  ages  on  the  wane ! 
Each  night  I  burn  the  records  of  the  day, — 

At  sunrise  every  soul  is  born  again ! 

Laugh  like  a  boy  at  splendors  that  have  sped, 
To  vanished  joys  be  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb; 

My  judgments  seal  the  dead  past  with  its  dead, 
But  never  bind  a  moment  yet  to  come. 

Though  deep  in  mire,  wring  not  your  hands  and  weep; 

I  lend  my  arm  to  all  who  say  "  I  can !  " 
No  shame-faced  outcast  ever  sank  so  deep, 

But  yet  might  rise  and  be  again  a  man ! 

Dost  thou  behold  thy  lost  youth  all  aghast? 

Dost  reel  from  righteous  Retribution's  blow? 
Then  turn  from  blotted  archives  of  the  past, 

And  find  the  future's  pages  white  as  snow. 

Art  thou  a  mourner?     Rouse  thee  from  thy  spell; 

Art  thou  a  sinner?     Sins  may  be  forgiven; 
Each  morning  gives  thee  wings  to  flee  from  hell, 

Each  night  a  star  to  guide  thy  feet  to  heaven. 


GEORGE  HENRY  MILES  129 


GEORGE  HENRY  MILES 

(Maryland:   1824-1871) 

SAID  THE  ROSE 

I  AM  weary  of  the  garden, 

Said  the  Rose; 

For  the  winter  winds  are  sighing, 
All  my  playmates  round  me  dying, 
And  my  leaves  will  soon  be  lying 

'Neath  the  snows. 

But  I  hear  my  Mistress  coming, 

Said  the  Rose; 

She  will  take  me  to  her  chamber, 
Where  the  honeysuckles  clamber, 
And  I'll  bloom  there  all  December, 

'Spite  the  snows. 

Sweeter  fell  her  lity  finger 

Than  the  Bee ! 
Ah !  how  feebly  I  resisted, 
Smoothed  my  thorns,  and  e'en  assisted 
As  all  blushing  I  was  twisted 

Off  my  tree, 


130  GEORGE  HENRY  MILES 

And  she  fixed  me  in  her  bosom 

Like  a  star; 

And  I  flashed  there  all  the  morning, 
Jasmine,  honeysuckle  scorning, 
Parasites  forever  fawning 

That  they  are. 

And  when  evening  came  she  set  me 

In  a  vase 

All  of  rare  and  radiant  metal, 
And  I  felt  her  red  lips  settle 
On  my  leaves  till  each  proud  petal 

Touched  her  face. 

And  I  shone  about  her  slumbers 

Like  a  light; 

And  I  said,  "  Instead  of  weeping, 
In  the  garden  vigil  keeping, 
Here  I'll  watch  my  Mistress  sleeping 

Every  night." 

But  when  morning  with  its  sunbeams 

Softly  shone, 

In  the  mirror  where  she  braided 
Her  brown  hair  I  saw  how  jaded, 
Old  and  colorless  and  faded 

I  had  grown. 


GEORGE  HENRY  MILES  131 

Not  a  drop  of  dew  was  on  me, 

Never  one; 

From  my  leaves  no  odors  started, 
All  my  perfume  had  departed, 
I  lay  pale  and  broken-hearted 

In  the  sun. 

Still,  I  said  her  smile  is  better 

Than  the  rain; 

Though  my  fragrance  may  forsake  me, 
To  her  bosom  she  will  take  me 
And  with  crimson  kisses  make  me 

Young  again. 

So  she  took  me  —  gazed  a  second  — 

Half  a  sigh  — 

Then,  alas !  can  hearts  so  harden  ? 
Without  ever  asking  pardon, 
Threw  me  back  into  the  garden, 

There  to  die. 

How  the  jealous  garden  gloried 

In  my  fall ! 

How  the  honeysuckles  chid  me, 
How  the  sneering  jasmines  bid  me 
Light  the  long  gray  grass  that  hid  me 

Like  a  pall. 


132  GEORGE  HENRY  MILES 

There  I  lay  beneath  her  window 

In  a  swoon, 

Till  the  earthworm  o'er  me  trailing 
Woke  me,  just  at  twilight's   failing, 
As  the  whip-poor-will  was  wailing 

To  the  moon. 

But  I  hear  the  storm  winds  stirring 

In  their  lair; 

And  I  know  they  soon  will  lift  me 
In  their  giant  arms  and  sift  me 
Into  ashes  as  they  drift  me 

Through  the  air. 

So  I  pray  them  in  their  mercy 

Just  to  take 

From  my  heart  of  hearts,  or  near  it, 
The  last  living  leaf,  and  bear  it 
To  her  feet,  and  bid  her  wear  it 

For  my  sake. 


IDA  GOLDSMITH  MORRIS  133 


IDA  GOLDSMITH  MORRIS 

(Kentucky:  18 ) 

ADRIFT 

SOMETIMES,  when  after  years  of  vain  regret, 

I  cheat  myself  into  the  fond  belief 

That  I  have  conquered  love  and  vanquished  grief, 

Some  little  thing, —  a  spray  of  mignonette, 

A  careless  word,  the  air  of  that  duet 

We  used  to  sing,  perchance  a  turned-down  leaf 

In  the  last  book  we  read, —  and  lo,  how  brief 

My  boasted  calm !     Behold,  my  eyes  are  wet  ; 

And  barriers,  built  with  patience,  day  by  day, 

By  the  remorseless  flood  are  swept  away, 

While,  on  the  waves  of  Memory  I  drift 

Far  from  the  harbor  of  my  self-deceit: 

Borne,  unresisting,  in  the  current  swift, 

That  drowns  my  will  and  flings  me  at  thy  feet! 


CHILDLESS 

THE  sleeping  echoes  of  her  quiet  room 
Are  never  waked  by  bursts  of  childish  glee. 
And  up  the  polished  staircase  never  come 


134  IDA  GOLDSMITH  MORRIS 

Light  patterings  of  footsteps  swift  and  free, 
Alone  she  sits  and,  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
Dreams  happily  of  what  shall  never  be ! 

Sometimes  her  wistful  fancy  strews  the  floor 
(Rich-carpeted  and  neat)  with  broken  toys; 
Paints  finger-prints  on  window-glass  and  door, 
Hears  echoes  of  shrill  laughter  and  rude  noise; 
All  that  a  tired  mother  might  deplore 
Would  seem  to  her  starved  heart  as  priceless  joys. 

Till,  from  the  world  without,  some  sudden  note 
Of  childish  voices  through  her  vision  rings, 
And  sobs  of  anguish  rise  to  her  white  throat, 
Round  which  no  dimpled  arm  in  mischief  clings; 
Gone  are  the  sweet  dream-fancies,  as  may  float 
From  earth  to  heaven  the  flash  of  angel-wings. 

And  yet,  no  little  empty  crib  is  there 

To  mock  the  mother-arms,  outstretched  in  vain ; 

She  hoards  no  shining  tress  of  silken  hair; 

No  tiny  grave  where  buried  hopes  lie  slain; 

Only  the  deeper  loss  she  has  to  bear 

Upon  whose  heart  no  babe  of  hers  has  lain ! 


IDA  GOLDSMITH  MORRIS  135 


THAT  LITTLE  CHAP  OF  MINE 

I  KNOW  I'm  jest  an  ordinary,  easy-goin'  cuss, 
'Bout  like  the  common  run  of  men,  no  better  an'  no  wuss. 
I  can't  lay  claim  to  anything  as  fur  as  looks  may  go, 
An'  when  it  comes  to  learning,  why,  I  don't  stand  any 

show. 
But  thar  must  be  somethin  more  in  me  than  other  folks  kin 

see, 
'Cause  I've  got  a  little  chap  at  home  that  thinks  a  heap  of 

me. 

I've  had  my  ups  an'  downs  in  life,  as  most  folks  have,  I 

guess, 

An'  take  it  all  in  all,  I  couldn't  brag  of  much  success. 
But  it  braces  up  a  feller,  an'  it  tickles  him  to  know 
Thar's  some  one  that  takes  stock  in  him,  no  matter  how 

things  go; 

An'  when  I  git  the  worst  of  it,  I'm  proud  as  I  kin  be, 
To  know  that  little  chap  of  mine  still  thinks  a  heap  of  me. 

To  feel  his  little  hand  in  mine,  so  trustin'  an'  so  warm, 
To  know  he  thinks  I'm  strong  enough  to  keep  him  from 

all  harm, 

To  see  his  lovin'  faith  in  all  that  I  kin  say  or  do  — 
It  sort  o'  shames  a  feller,  but  it  makes  him  better,  too. 
An'  so  I  try  to  be  the  man  he  fancies  me  to  be, 
Jest  'cause  that  little  chap  of  mine,  he  thinks  a  heap  of  me. 


136  IDA  GOLDSMITH  MORRIS 

I  wouldn't  disappoint  his  trust  for  anything  on  earth, 
Or  let  him  know  how  little  I  jest  natchully  am  worth. 
An'  after  all,  it's  easy  up  the  better  road  to  climb, 
With  a  little  hand  to  help  you  on  an'  guide  you  all  the 

time. 

An'  I  reckon  I'm  a  better  man  than  what  I  used  to  be, 
Since  I've  got  a  little  chap  at  home  that  thinks  a  heap  of 

me. 


ISRAEL 

SHE  stands  among  the  nations  of  the  earth, 
Unique  —  a  figure  of  pathetic  grace, 
God's  chosen  daughter  of  the  human  race, 
Destined  to  woe  and  grandeur  from  her  birth. 
She  sees  her  children  scattered,  doomed  to  dearth, 
And  in  her  dusky  eyes  there  shines  the  trace 
Of  tears,  that  wet  her  pale,  prophetic  face, 
(Knowing  her  people's  pristine  power  and  worth)  - 

O  stricken  mother,  unto  whom  we  owe 

The  light  and  life  that  springs  from  one  pure  fount, 

Whence  all  our  laws  and  inspirations  flow, 

Not  vainly  have  you  shed  your  blood  and  tears, 

Withstanding  scorn  and  hatred  all  these  years; 

He  guards  you  still,  Who  spoke  from  Sinai's  mount. 


IDA  GOLDSMITH  MORRIS  137 

REMEMBRANCE 

DEAR,  do  not  dream  I  have  forgotten  thee, 
Though  life  goes  on  in  its  accustomed  way. 
There  is  no  single  hour  in  any  day 
That  is  not  set  with  gems  of  memory; 
And,  though  I  wage  no  war  with  destiny, 
I  have  shut  in  with  that  dear,  senseless  clay, 
That  sleeps  beneath  the  lilies  (fair  as  they), 
All  my  heart's  wealth  and  love's  lost  ecstasy. 
The  last,  long  pressure  of  thy  hand  in  mine 
Has  kept  it  pure  as  those  sealed  lips  of  thine 
(That  nevermore  shall  part  with  smiles  for  me, 
Since  death  has  kissed  to  whiteness  their  warm  red.) 
Dear,  never  dream  I  have  forgotten  thee, 
Thy  soul  and  mine  are  one,  by  memory  wed. 


138  THEODORE  O'HARA 


THEODORE  O'HARA 

(Kentucky:   1820-1867) 

THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 

THE  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight   haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 
Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed; 


THEODORE  O'HARA  139 

Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past; 
Nor  war's  wild  note  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  this  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "Victory  or  death." 

Long  has  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 
For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain; 


140  THEODORE  O'HARA 

And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide; 
Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew, 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

'Twas  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 
The  flower  of  his  beloved  band 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 

His  first-born  laurels  grew, 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er   Angostura's   plain, 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  mouldering  slain. 
The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or   shepherd's   pensive   lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 
Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 

Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 
Along  the  heedless  air. 

Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

.     Shall  be  your  fitter  grave; 


THEODORE  O'HARA  141 

She  claims  from  War  his  richest  spoil, — 
The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield; 
The  sunlight  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead ! 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave, — 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 

The   story   how   ye   fell; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb. 


142  H.  F.  PAGE 


H.  F.  PAGE 

(North  Carolina:  1873 ) 

THE  LAST  NIGHT  AT  APPOMATTOX 

WEST  —  ebbing  day, 
Then  'twilight  gray 
And  dusk-glooms  gathering  slow. 

Sad,  whispering  pines, 

Tattered  tent  lines, 

And  camp  fires  glimmering  low. 

Forms,   swarthy,  worn  — 
Gray,  battle-torn, 
Move  sadly  in  the  light. 

The  Southern  Bars, 
The  Cross,  the  Stars 
Last- folded  lie  to-night ! 


JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER         143 


JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER 

(Maryland:   1825-1896) 

STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY 

COME,  stack  arms,  men;  pile  on  the  rails; 

Stir  up  the  camp-fire  bright ! 
No  growling  if  the  canteen  fails: 

We'll  make  a  roaring  night. 
Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along, 
There  burly  Blue  Ridge  echoes  strong, 
To  swell  the  Brigade's  rousing  song, 

Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way. 

We  see  him  now  —  the  queer  slouched  hat, 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew; 
The  shrewd,  dry  smile;  the  speech  so  pat, 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "  Blue-light  Elder  "  knows  'em  well : 
Says  he,  "  That's  Banks ;  he's  fond  of  shell. 
Lord  save  his  soul!  we'll  give  him —  ;"  Well, 

That's  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way ! 

Silence !  Ground  arms  !  Kneel  all !  Caps  off ! 
Old  Massa's  going  to  pray. 


144          JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER 

Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff: 

Attention  !  —  it's  his  way. 
Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
In  forma  pauperis  to  God, 
"  Lay  bare  Thine  arm !  Stretch  forth  Thy  rod : 

Amen  !  " —  That's  Stonewall's  Way. 

He's  in  the  saddle  now.     Fall  in ! 

Steady  !  the  whole  brigade. 
Hill's  at  the  ford,  cut  off;  we'll  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade. 
What   matter   if  our   shoes   are  worn? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn? 
Quick   step !   we're  with  him  before  morn : 

That's  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way. 

The  sun's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 
Of  morning;  and  —  By  George! 

Here's  Longstreet,  struggling  in  the  lists, 
Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 

Pope  and  his  Dutchmen  !  —  whipped  before. 

"  Bay'nets  and  grape !  "  hear  Stonewall  roar. 

Charge,  Stuart !     Pay  off  Ashby's  score, 
In  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way. 

Ah,  Maiden !  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 

For  news  of  Stonewall's  band. 
Ah,  Widow!  read,  with  eyes  that  burn, 

That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 


JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER         145 

Ah,  Wife !  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on ! 
Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn. 
The   foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born, 
That  gets  in  Stonewall's  Way. 


146  SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK 


SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK 

(Alabama :    1 854 ) 

BESSIE  BROWN,  M.  D. 

'TWAS  April  when  she  came  to  town ; 

The  birds  had  come,  the  bees  were  swarming. 
Her  name,  she  said,  was  Doctor  Brown : 

I   saw   at  once  that  she  was  charming. 
She  took  a  cottage  tinted  green, 

Where  dewy  roses  loved  to  mingle; 
And  on  the  door,  next  day,  was  seen 
A  dainty  little  shingle. 

Her  hair  was  like  an  amber  wreath; 

Her  hat  was  darker,  to  enhance  it. 
The  violet  eyes  that  .glowed  beneath 

Were  brighter  than  her  keenest  lancet. 
The  beauties  of  her  glove  and  gown 

The  sweetest  rhyme  would  fail  to  utter, 
Ere  she  had  been  a  day  in  town 
The  town  was  in  a  flutter. 

The  gallants  viewed  her  feet  and  hands 
And  swore  they  never  saw  such  wee  things; 


SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK  147 

The  gossips  met  in  purring  bands 

And  tore  her  piecemeal  o'er  the  tea-things. 

The  former  drank  the  Doctor's*  health 
With  clinking  cups,  the  gay  carousers; 

The  latter  watched  her  door  by  stealth, 
Just  like  so  many  mousers. 

But  Doctor  Bessie  went  her  way 

Unmindful  of  the  spiteful  cronies, 
And  drove  her  buggy  every  day 

Behind  a  dashing  pair  of  ponies. 
Her  flower-like  face  so  bright  she  bore, 

I  hoped  that  time  might  never  wilt  her. 
The  way  she  tripped  across  the  floor 
Was  better  than  a  philter. 

Her  patients  thronged  the  village  street; 

Her  snowy  slate  was  always  quite  full. 
Some  said  her  bitters  tasted  sweet; 

And  some  pronounced  her  pills  delightful. 
'Twas  strange  —  I  knew  not  what  it  meant  — 

She  seemed  a  nymph  from  Eldorado; 

Where'er  she  came,  where'er  she  went, 

Grief  lost  its  gloomy  shadow. 

Like  all  the  rest,  I  too  grew  ill; 

My  aching  heart  there  was  no  quelling. 
I  tremble  at  my  doctor's  bill, — 

And  lo !  the  items  still  are  swelling. 


148  SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK 

The  drugs  I've  drunk  you'd  weep  to  hear ! 

They've  quite  enriched  the  fair  concocter, 
And  I'm  a  ruined  man,  I  fear, 

Unless  —  I  wed  the  Doctor  ! 


DOLLIE 

SHE  sports  a  witching  gown 
With  a  ruffle  up  and  down 

On  the  skirt. 
She  is  gentle,  she  is  shy ; 
But  there's  mischief  in  her  eye, 

She's  a  flirt ! 

She  displays  a  tiny  glove, 
And  a  dainty  little  love 

Of  a  shoe; 

And  she  wears  her  hat  a-tilt 
Over  bangs  that  never  wilt 

In  the  dew. 

'Tis   rumored  chocolate   creams 
Are  the  fabric  of  her  dreams  — 

But  enough ! 
I  know  beyond  a  doubt 
That  she  carries  them  about 

In  her  muff. 


SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK  149 

With  her  dimples  and  her  curls 
She   exasperates  the  girls 

Past   belief: 

They  hint  that  she's  a  cat, 
And  delightful  things  like  that 

In  their  grief. 

It  is  shocking,  I  declare! 
But  what  does  Dollie  care 

When  the  beaux 
Come  flocking  to  her  feet 
Like  the  bees  around  a  sweet 

Little  rose? 


LILLIAN'S  FAN 

LITTLE  fan,  of  fluff  and  pearl, 
Tell  me,  pray,  is  life  a  whirl 

Of  delight? 
In  Folly's  fickle  crew 
There  is  naught  as  blithe  as  you, 

Or  as  bright. 

You  know  no  other  skies 
Save  my  lady's  azure  eyes 

All  a-gleam; 

And  beneath  them,  night  and  day, 
Lo,  the  moments  glide  away 

Like  a  dream. 


150  SAMUEL  MINTUHN  PECK 

Each  silver  strain  a-float 
From  my  lady's  slender  throat 

You  have  heard; 
And  oftentimes  you  nest 
In  the  roses  at  her  breast 

Like  a  bird. 

Oh,  the  blushes  you  have  hid, 
And  the  notes  behind  you  slid, 

Naughty  fan! 
The  witcheries  you  weave, 
Have  the  cunning  to  deceive 

Any  man. 

Humanity    rebels 

If  I  mention  half  the  spells 

You   employ; 

You  laugh   at  breaking  hearts, 
And  a  lover's  aching  smarts 

You  enjoy. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  everything, 
Still  I  bless  your  snowy  wing, 

When  you  dare 
To  screen  her  head  and  mine 
So  "  mamma  "  may  not  divine 

Who  is  there. 


SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK  151 

I  envy  you  her  touch  — 

Oh,  I  can  not  tell  how  much; 

It  is  sad ! 

Just  to  see  her  gayly  tip 
You  against  her  cheery  lip 

Drives  me  mad! 

Alas,  I  would  I  knew 

Half  the  secrets  known  to  you, 

Dainty  fan ! 

As  it  is,  my  fate  I  guess, 
In  Damoclean  distress, 

As  I  can. 

Beauty's  pet,  a  word  aside, — 
While  you  flutter  in  your  pride 

Have  a  care; 

Or  ere  the  season's  through 
She  may  weary  too  of  you, 

So  beware ! 


THE  GRAPEVINE  SWING 

WHEN  I  was  a  boy  on  the  old  plantation, 

Down  by  the  deep  bayou, 
The  fairest  spot  of  all  creation, 

Under  the  arching  blue; 


152  SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK 

When  the  wind  came  over  the  cotton  and  corn, 

To  the  long  slim  loop  I'd  spring 
With  brown  feet  bare,  and  a  hat  brim  torn, 

And  swing  in  the  grapevine  swing. 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing, 
Laughing  where  the  wild  birds  sing, 

I  dream  and  sigh 

For  the  days  gone  by, 
Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing! 

Out  —  o'er  the  water  lilies  bonnie  and  bright, 

Back  —  to  the  moss-grown  tree; 
I  shouted  and  laughed  with  a  heart  as  bright 

As  a  wild  rose  tossed  by  the  breeze. 
The  mocking  bird  joined  in  my  reckless  glee, 

I  longed  for  no  angel's  wing  — 
I  was  just  as  near  heaven  as  I  wanted  to  be 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing. 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing, 
Laughing  where  the  wild  birds  sing, 

O  to  be  a  boy 

With  a  heart  full  of  joy, 
Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing! 

I'm  weary  at  noon,  I'm  weary  at  night, 
I'm  fretted  and  sore  at  heart, 


SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK  153 

And  care  is  sowing  my  locks  with  white 
As  I  wend  through  the  fevered  mart. 

I'm  tired  of  the  world,  with  its  pride  and  pomp, 
And  fame  seems  a  worthless  thing. 

I'd  barter  it  all  for  one  day's  romp, 
And  a  swing  in  the  grapevine  swing. 

Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing, 
Laughing  where  the  wild  birds  sing, 

I  would  I  were  away 

From  the  world  to-day, 
Swinging  in  the  grapevine  swing! 


154      SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PI  ATT 


SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PIATT 

(Kentucky:    18 ) 

THE  WITCH  IN  THE  GLASS 

"  MY  mother  says  I  must  not  pass 
Too  near  that  glass; 
She  is  afraid  that  I  will  see 
A  little  witch  that  looks  like  me, 
With  a  red,  red  mouth  to  whisper  low 
The  very  thing  I  should  not  know !  " 

"Alack  for  all  your  mother's  care! 
A  bird  of  the  air, 
A  wistful  wind,  or  (I  suppose 
Sent  by  some  hapless  boy)   a  rose, 
With  breath  too  sweet,  will  whisper  low 
The  very  thing  you  should  not  know ! " 


EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY  155 


EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY 

(Maryland:    1802-1828) 

A  HEALTH 

I  FILL  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'Tis  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 
The  measures  of  her  hours; 


156  EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY 

Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 
The  freshness  of  young  flowers, 

And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 
So  fill  her,  she  appears 

The  image  of  themselves  by  turns, — 
The  idol  of  past  years ! 

Of  her  bright  face,  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain; 
But  memory  such  as  mine  of  her 

So  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon  — 
Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 


EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY  157 

THE  SERENADE 

LOOK  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love, 

And  shame  them  with  thine  eyes, 
On  which,  than  on  the  lights  above, 

There  hang  more  destinies; 
Night's  beauty  is  the  harmony 

Of  blending  shades  and  light; 
Then,  Lady,  up  —  look  out,  and  be 

A  sister  to  the  Night ! 

Sleep  not !     Thine  image  wakes  for  aye 

Within  my  watching  breast; 
Sleep  not !  from  her  soft  sleep  should  fly, 

Who  robs  all  hearts  of  rest; 
Nay,  Lady,  from  thy  slumbers  break, 

And  make  the  darkness  gay, 
With  looks,  whose  brightness  well  might  make 

Of  darker  nights  a  day. 


158  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

(Virginia:    1809-1849) 

A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM 

TAKE  this  kiss  upon  the  brow ! 

And,  in  parting  from  you  now, 

Thus  much  let  me  avow: 

You  are  not  wrong,  who  deem 

That  my  days  have  been  a  dream ; 

Yet  if  hope  has  flown  away 

In  a  night,  or  in  a  day, 

In  a  vision,  or  in  none, 

Is  it  therefore  the  less  gone? 

All  that  we  see  or  seem 

Is  but  a"  dream  within  a  dream. 

I  stand  amid  the  roar 
Of  a  surf-tormented  shore, 
And  I  hold  within  my  hand 
Grains  of  the  golden  sand  — 
How  few!  yet  how  they  creep 
Through  my  fingers  to  the  deep, 
While  I  weep,  while  I  weep ! 
O  God !  can  I  not  grasp 
Them  with  a  tighter  clasp? 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  159 

O  God !  can  I  not  save 
One  from  the  pitiless  wave? 
Is  all  that  we  see  or  seem 
But  a  dream  within  a  dream? 

ANNABEL  LEE 

IT  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, — 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee, — 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 


160  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me; 
Yes,  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee: 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling  —  my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  161 

BRIDAL  BALLAD 

THE  ring  is  on  my  hand, 

And  the  wreath  is  on  my  brow ; 
Satins  and  jewels  grand 
Are  all  at  my  command, 

And  I  am  happy  now. 

And  my  lord  he  loves  me  well; 

But  when  first  he  breathed  his  vow 
I  felt  my  bosom  swell, 
For  the  words  rang  as  a  knell, 
And  the  voice  seemed  his  who  fell 
In  the  battle  down  the  dell, 

And  who  is  happy  now. 

But  he  spoke  to  reassure  me, 

And  he  kissed  my  pallid  brow, 
While  a  revery  came  o'er  me, 
And  to  the  churchyard  bore  me, 
And  I  sighed  to  him  before  me, 
Thinking  him  dead  D'Elormie, 

"  Oh,  I  am  happy  now !  " 

And  thus  the  words  were  spoken, 

And  this  the  plighted  vow, 
And  though  my  faith  be  broken, 
And  though  my  heart  be  broken, 
Behold  the  golden  token 

That  proves  me  happy  now! 


162  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Would  God  I  could  awaken ! 

For  I  dream  I  know  not  how, 
And  my  soul  is  sorely  shaken 
Lest  an  evil  step  be  taken, 
Lest  the  dead  who  is  forsaken 

May  not  be  happy  now. 

FOR  ANNIE 

THANK  Heaven !  the  crisis  — 
The  danger  is  past, 

And  the  lingering  illness 
Is  over  at  last, 

And  the  fever  called  "  Living ' 
Is  conquered  at  last. 

Sadly  I  know 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength, 
And  no  muscle  I  move 

As  I  lie  at  full  length; 
But  no  matter !     I  feel 

I  am  better  at  length. 

And  I  rest  so  composed, 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
That    any    beholder 

Might  fancy  me  dead — 
Might  start  at  beholding  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  163 

The  moaning  and  groaning, 

The  sighing  and  sobbing, 
Are  quieted  now, 

With  that  horrible  throbbing 
At  heart, —  ah,  that  horrible, 

Horrible  throbbing !  — 
The  sickness,  the  nausea, 

The  pitiless  pain, 
Have  ceased,  with  the  fever 

That  maddened  my  brain, 
With  the   fever  called  "Living" 

That  burned  in  my  brain. 

And  oh !  of  all  tortures 

That  torture  the  worst 
Has  abated  —  the  terrible 

Torture  of  thirst 
For  the  naphthaline  river 

Of  Passion  accurst; 
I  have  drunk  of  a  water 

That  quenches  all  thirst, — 

Of  a  water  that  flows, 

With  a  lullaby  sound, 
From  a  spring  but  a  very  few 

Feet  under  ground, 
From  a  cavern  not  very  far 

Down  under  ground. 


164  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

And  ah !  let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  'my  room  it  is  gloomy 

And  narrow  my  bed; 
For  man  never  slept 

In  a  different  bed — 
And,  to  sleep,  you  must  slumber 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

My  tantalized  spirit 
Here   blandly  reposes, 

Forgetting,  or  never 
Regretting,   its    roses  — 

Its   old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses; 

For  now,  while  so  quietly 

Lying,  it  fancies 
A  holier  odor 

About  it,  of  pansies  — 
A   rosemary   odor, 

Commingled  with  pansies, 
With  rue  and  the  beautiful 

Puritan  pansies. 

And  so  it  lies  happily, 

Bathing  in  many 
A  dream  of  the  truth 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie, 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  165 

Drowned  in  a  bath 

Of  the  tresses  of  Annie. 

She  tenderly  kissed  me, 

She  fondly  caressed, 
And  then  I  fell  gently 

To  sleep  on  her  breast, 
Deeply  to  sleep 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast. 


When  the  light  was  extinguished 
She  covered  me  warm, 

And  she  prayed  to  the  angels 
To  keep  me  from  harm, 

To  the  queen  of  the  angels 
To  shield  me  from  harm. 

And  I  lie  so  composedly 

Now  in  my  bed, 
(Knowing  her  love) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead; 
And  I  rest  so  contentedly 

Now   in   my  bed, 
(With  her  love  at  my  breast) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead  — 
That  you  shudder  to  look  at  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 


166  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

But  my   heart   is   brighter 

Than  all  of  the  many 
Stars    in   the   sky, 

For  it  sparkles  with  Annie  — 
It  glows  with  the  light 

Of  the  love  of  my  Annie, 
With  the  thought  of  the  light 

Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 


ISRAFEL 

And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute, 
and  who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures. — 
KORAN. 

IN  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute; 
None    sing    so    wildly    well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 
And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell), 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 

Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamored  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  167 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 
(With  the  rapid  Pleiades,  even, 
Which  were   seven) 
Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 

And  the  other  listening  things) 
That  Israfeli's  fire 
Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings, 
The  trembling  living  wire 

Of  those  unusual   strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty, 
Where  Love's  a  grown-up  God, 
Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest: 
Merrily  live,  and  long ! 

The  ecstasies  above 
With  thy  burning  measures  suit; 


168  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  fervor  of  thy  lute; 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine;  but  this 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours; 

Our  flowers  are  merely  flowers, 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 

Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I   could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

LENORE 

AH,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl !  the  spirit  flown  forever ! 
Let  the  bell  toll !  —  a  saintly  soul  floats  on  the  Stygian 

river ; 
And,   Guy  De  Vere,  hast  thou  no  tear?  —  weep  now  or 

nevermore ! 

See,  on  yon  drear  and  rigid  bier  low  lies  thy  love,  Lenore ! 
Come!  let  the  burial  rite  be  read,  the   funeral  song  be 

sung: 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  169 

An   anthem    for   the   queenliest   dead   that   ever   died   so 

young, 
A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that  she  died  so  young. 

"  Wretches !  ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth  and  hated  her 
for  her  pride, 

And  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health,  ye  blessed  her  —  that 
she  died ! 

How  shall  the  ritual,  then,  be  read?  the  requiem  how  be 
sung 

By  you  —  by  yours,  the  evil  eye, —  by  yours,  the  slan- 
derous tongue 

That  did  to  death  the  innocence  that  died,  and  died  so 
young  ?  " 

Peccavimus;  but  rave  not  thus !  and  let  a  Sabbath  song 
Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly  the  dead  may  feel  no  wrong! 
The  sweet  Lenore  hath  gone  before,  with  Hope,  that  flew 

beside, 
Leaving  thee  wild  for  the  dear  child  that  should  have 

been  thy  bride, — 

For  her,  the  fair  and  debonair,  that  now  so  lowly  lies, 
The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair  but  not  within  her  eyes; 
The  life  still  there,  upon  her  hair,   the  death   upon  her 

eyes. 

"Avaunt !  avaunt !  from  fiends  below,  the  indignant  ghost 

is  riven, — 
From  Hell  unto  a  high  estate  far  up  within  the  Heaven, — 


170  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

From  grief   and  groan,   to   a   golden   throne,  beside  the 

King  of  Heaven ! 
Let  no  bell  toll,  then, —  lest  her  soul,  amid  its  hallowed 

mirth, 
Should  catch  the  note  as  it  doth  float  up  from  the  damned 

Earth ! 
And  I!  —  to-night  my  heart  is  light! — no  dirge  will  I 

upraise, 
But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  with  a  Paean  of  old  days  !  " 

THE  BELLS 


HEAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells, 

Silver  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  171 

II 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 

Golden  bells! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  future !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  - 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells ! 


Ill 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells, 
Brazen  bells ! 


172  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek. 

Out  of  tune, 

In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire, 
Leaping  higher,  higher,   higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now,  now  to  sit,  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  despair ! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows 
By  the  twanging 
And  the  clanging 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, — 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  173 

By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells ; 

Of  the  bells - 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells - 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 

IV 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 

Iron  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels  ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people  —  ah,  the  people, 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 

And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 
In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman, 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human, 

They  are  ghouls; 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 


174  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

Rolls 

A  paean  from  the  bells ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells; 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  - 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhymee, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells; 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  - 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells; 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  175 

THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA 

Lo !  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 

Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst 

and  the  best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 
There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not!) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets  silently, 
Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free, — 
Up  domes,  up  spires,  up  kingly  halls, 
Up  fanes,  up  Babylon-like  walls, 
Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers, 
Up  many  and  many  a  marvelous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
iThe  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 


176  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

So  blend  the  turrets  and  the  shadows  there 

That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 

While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 

Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves 
Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves; 
But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 
In  each  idol's  diamond  eye, — 
Not  the  gayly  jeweled  dead 
Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed; 
For  no  ripples  curl,  alas ! 
Along  that  wilderness  of  glass; 
No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 
Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea; 
No  heaving  hint  that  winds  have  been 
On  seas  less  hideously  serene ! 

But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air ! 

The  wave  —  there  is  a  movement  there ! 

As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 

In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide; 

As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 

A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven ! 

The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow, 

The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low; 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  177 

And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 
Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 


THE  CONQUEROR  WORM 

Lo !  't  is  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years ! 
An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theater,  to  see 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low, 
And  hither  and  thither  fly; 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro, 
Flapping  from  out  their  condor  wings 

Invisible  Woe ! 

That  motley  drama  —  oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot ! 
With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not, 


178  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To  the  self-same  spot; 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 

But  see  amid  the  mimic  rout 

A  crawling  shape  intrude, — 
A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude ! 
It  writhes  —  it  writhes  !  —  with  mortal  pangs 

The  mimes  become  its  food, 
And  seraphs  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbued. 

Out  —  out  are  the  lights  —  out  all! 

And  over  each  quivering  form 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 
While  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
T.hat  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  "  Man," 

And  its  hero,  the  Conqueror  Worm. 

THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

IN  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace  — 

Radiant  palace  —  reared  its  head. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  179 

In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion, 

It  stood  there; 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow 
(This  —  all  this  —  was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago), 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well  tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting, 

Porphyrogene, 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,   flowing,   flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 


180  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate; 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate!) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travelers  now  within  that  valley 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody, 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh  —  but  smile  no  more. 

THE  RAVEN 

ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and 

weary, 
Over  many   a   quaint   and   curious   volume   of   forgotten 

lore, — 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  181 

While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a 
tapping, 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber 
door. 

"  T  is  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  cham- 
ber door: 
Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  Decem- 
ber, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon 
the  floor. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow; — vainly  I  had  sought  to 
borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  —  sorrow  for  the  lost 
Lenore, 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore : 
Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And   the    silken    sad    uncertain    rustling   of    each   purple 

curtain 
Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt 

before; 

So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  re- 
peating 

'  'T  is  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 
door, 


182  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Some    late    visitor    entreating    entrance    at    my    chamber 

door: 
This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently    my    soul    grew    stronger;    hesitating    then    no 
longer, 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  im- 
plore ; 

But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 
rapping, 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber 
door, 

That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  " —  here  I  opened  wide 

the  door: — 
Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there  won- 
dering, fearing, 

Doubting,    dreaming   dreams    no   mortals    ever    dared   to 
dream  before; 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no 
token, 

And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word, 
"Lenore?" 

This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word, 

"Lenore:" 
Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  183 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 
burning, 

Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than  be- 
fore. 

"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window 
lattice ; 

Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  ex- 
plore; 

Let  my  heart  be   still   a  moment   and  this   mystery   ex- 
plore : 
'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and 
flutter, 

In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of 
yore. 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he;  not  a  minute  stopped 
or  stayed  he; 

But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  cham- 
ber door, 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

door: 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smil- 
ing 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it 
wore, — 


184  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"   I  said, 

"  art  sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly    grim    and    ancient    Raven    wandering    from    the 

Nightly  shore: 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian 

shore !  " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so 

plainly, 
Though     its     answer     little     meaning — little     relevancy 

bore; 
For    we    cannot    help    agreeing    that    no    living    human 

being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber 

door, 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber 

door, 
With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke 

only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 

outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered,  not  a  feather  then  he 

fluttered, 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered, —  "  Other  friends  have 

flown  before; 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  185 

On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have  flown 

before." 
Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore." 

Startled    at    the     stillness     broken    by    reply    so     aptly 
spoken, 

"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and 
store, 

Caught    from    some    unhappy    master    whom    unmerciful 
Disaster 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one  bur- 
den bore : 

Till   the    dirges    of    his    Hope    that    melancholy    burden 

bore 
Of  '  Never  —  nevermore.'  " 

But   the   Raven   still   beguiling   all   my   fancy    into   smil- 
ing, 

Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and 
bust  and  door; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  link- 
ing 

Fancy   unto   fancy,   thinking  what  this   ominous   bird   of 
yore, 

What  this  grim,   ungainly,   ghastly,   gaunt,   and  ominous 

bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 


186  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  express- 
ing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's 
core; 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  re- 
clining 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated 
o'er, 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp-light  gloat- 
ing o'er 
She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an 

unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the  tufted 

floor. 
"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee  —  by  these 

angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite  —  respite    and    nepenthe    from    thy    memories    of 

Lenore ! 
Quaff,  oh,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost 

Lenore ! " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil !  prophet  still,  if  bird 

or  devil ! 
Whether  Tempter  sent,   or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee 

here  ashore, 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  187 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  en- 
chanted — 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted  —  tell  me  truly,  I  im- 
plore : 

Is  there  —  is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?  —  tell  me  —  tell  me,  I 

implore !  " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil !  prophet  still,  if  bird 

or  devil ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we  both 

adore, 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp   a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore, 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  nar*e 

Lenore." 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend ! "  I 
shrieked,  upstarting; 

"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  night's  Plu- 
tonian shore ! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 
hath  spoken ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken !  quit  the  bust  above  my 
door ! 


188  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from 

off  my  door !  " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is 

dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow 

on  the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on 

the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore  ! 

THE  SLEEPER 

AT  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 
I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon. 
An  opiate  vapor,  dewy,  dim, 
Exhales   from  out  her  golden  rim, 
And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 
Upon  the  quiet  mountain-top, 
Steals  drowsily  and  musically 
Into  the  universal  valley. 
The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grave; 
The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave; 
Wrapping  the  fog  about  its  breast, 
The  ruin  molders  into  rest; 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  189 

Looking  like  Lethe,  see !  the  lake 
A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take, 
And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake. 
All   beauty    sleeps  !  —  and   lo !   where   lies 
(Her  casement  open  to  the  skies) 
Irene,   with   her   destinies ! 

O  lady  bright !  can  it  be  right, 

This  window  open  to  the  night? 

The  wanton  airs,  from  the  tree-top, 

Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop; 

The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 

Flit  through  my  chamber  in  and  out, 

And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 

So  fitfully,  so  fearfully, 

Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 

'Neath  which   thy   slumb'ring  soul   lies   hid, 

That,  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall, 

Like  ghosts  the   shadows   rise   and   fall. 

O  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear? 

Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here? 

Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 

A  wonder  to  these  garden  trees ! 

Strange  is  thy  pallor :  strange  thy  dress : 

Strange,  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress, 

And  this  all-solemn  silentness ! 


190  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

The  lady  sleeps.     Oh,  may  her  sleep, 

Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep ! 

Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep! 

This   chamber  changed   for   one  more  holy, 

This  bed  for  one  more  melancholy, 

I  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 

Forever  with  unopened  eye, 

While  the  pale  sheeted  ghosts  go  by ! 

My  love,  she  sleeps.     Oh,  may  her  sleep, 

As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep ! 

Soft  may  the  worms  about  her  creep ! 

Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 

For  her  may   some   tall  vault  unfold, — 

Some  vault  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black 

And  winged  panels  fluttering  back, 

Triumphant,  o'er  the  crested  palls, 

Of  her  grand  family  funerals; 

Some  sepulcher,  remote,  alone, 

Against  whose  portal  she  hath  thrown, 

In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone; 

Some  tomb  from  out  whose  sounding  door 

She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more, 

Thrilling  to  think,   poor   child  of  sin, 

It  was  the  dead  who  groaned  within ! 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  191 

THE  VALLEY  OF  UNREST 

ONCE  it  smiled  a  silent  dell 

Where  the  people  did  not  dwell ; 

They  had  gone  unto  the  wars, 

Trusting  to  the  mild-eyed  stars, 

Nightly  from  their  azure  towers, 

To  keep  watch  above  the  flowers, 

In  the  midst  of  which  all  day 

The  red  sunlight  lazily  lay. 

Now  each  visitor  shall  confess 

The  sad  Valley's  restlessness. 

Nothing  there  is  motionless, 

Nothing  save  the  airs  that  brood 

Over  the  magic  solitude. 

Ah,  by  no  wind  are  stirred  those  trees 

That  palpitate  like  the  chill  seas 

Around  the  misty  Hebrides  ! 

Ah,  by  no  wind  those  clouds  are  driven 

That  rustle  through  the  unquiet  heaven 

Uneasily,   from  morn  till   even, 

Over  the  violets  there  that  lie 

In  myriad  types  of  the  human  eye  — 

Over  the  lilies  there  that  wave 

And  weep  above  a  nameless  grave ! 

They  wave ;  from  out  their  fragrant  tops 

Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops. 

They  weep ;  from  off  their  delicate  stems 

Perennial  tears  descend  in  gems. 


192  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

TO  HELEN 

HELEN,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicaean  barks  of  yore, 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary,  wayworn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs,  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo !  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand! 
Ah,   Psyche,   from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land! 


TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE 

THOU  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine, — 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  193 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last ! 

Ah,  starry  hope  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  future  cries, 
"  On !  on !  "—  but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf!)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast! 

For,  alas !  alas !  with  me 

The  light  of  life  is  o'er! 

"No  more  —  no  more  —  no  more — " 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar ! 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  gray  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams, 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 

ULALUME 

THE  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober; 
The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere, 
The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere; 

It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 


194  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir: 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber; 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic 
Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  Soul  — 
Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 
As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll, 
As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 
In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole, 

That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk   had  been   serious   and   sober, 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere, 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere, 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 
And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year 
(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year!), 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber 

(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  here), 

Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  195 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, 

As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn, 
At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 

And  nebulous  luster  was  born, 
Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 

Arose   with   a   duplicate   horn, 
Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 

Distinct  with   its   duplicate   horn. 

And   I  said,  "She  is  warmer  than  Dian; 

She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs, 

She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs ; 
She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 

These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 
And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 

To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies, 

To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies; 
Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes, 
Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 

With  love  in  her  luminous   eyes." 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said,  "  Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust, 

Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust; 
Oh,  hasten!  —  oh,  let  us  not  linger! 

Oh,  fly  !  —  let  us  fly  !  —  for  we  must." 


196  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 
Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust; 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 
Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust, 
Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

I  replied,  "This  is  nothing  but  dreaming: 

Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light ! 

Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light ! 
Its  sibyllic  splendor  is  beaming 

With  hope  and  in  beauty  to-night ! 

See,  it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the  night ! 
Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 

And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright ; 
We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 

That  can  not  but  guide  us  aright, 

Since  it  flickers  up  to  Heaven  through  the  night." 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 

And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom, 

And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom ; 
And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb, 

By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb ; 
And  I  said,  "What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 

On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb?" 

She  replied,  "  Ulalume !  Ulalume  !  - 

'T  is  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume ! " 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  197 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 
As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere, 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere, 

And  I  cried,  "  It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I  journeyed,  I  journeyed  down  here, 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here, 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
This  misty  mid  region   of  Weir; 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 


198        GEORGE  DENISON  PRENTICE 


GEORGE  DENISON  PRENTICE 

(Kentucky:    1802-1870) 

THE  CLOSING  YEAR 

'Tis  midnight's  holy  hour  —  and  silence  now 
Is  brooding,  like  a  gentle  spirit,  o'er 
The  still  and  pulseless  world.     Hark !  on  the  winds, 
The  bell's  deep-notes  are  swelling.     'Tis  the  knell 
.Of  the  departed  year. 

No  funeral  train 

Is  sweeping  past;  yet  on  the  stream  and  wood, 
With  melancholy  light,  the  moonbeams  rest, 
Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud;  the  air  is  stirred, 
As  by  a  mourner's  sigh;  and  on  yon  cloud 
That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through  heaven 
The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand, — 
Young   Spring,   bright   Summer,   Autumn's   solemn   form, 
And  Winter,  with  his  aged  locks, —  and  breathe 
In  mournful  cadences,  that  come  abroad 
Like  the  far  wind  harp's  wild  and  touching  wail, 
A  melancholy  dirge  o'er  the  dead  Year, 
Gone  from  the  earth  forever. 


GEORGE  DENISON  PRENTICE        199 

'Tis  a  time 

For  memory  and  for  tears.     Within  the  deep, 
Still  chambers  of  the  heart  a  specter  dim, 
Whose  tones  are  like  the  wizard  voice  of  Time, 
Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  points  its  cold 
And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 
And  holy  visions  that  have  passed  away 
And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 
On  the  dead  waste  of  life.     That  specter  lifts 
The  coffin-lid  of  hope,  and  joy,  and  love, 
And,  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale 
Sweet  forms  that  slumber  there,  scatters  dead  flowers 
O'er  what  has  passed  to  nothingness. 

The  year 

Has  gone,  and  with  it  many  a  glorious  throng 
Of  happy  dreams.     Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 
Its  shadow  on  each  heart.     In  its  swift  course 
It  waved  its  scepter  o'er  the  beautiful  — 
And  they  are  not.     It  laid  its  pallid  hand 
Upon  the  strong  man  —  and  the  haughty  form 
Is    fallen,    and   the    flashing    eye    is    dim. 
It  trod  the  hall  of  revelry,  where  thronged 
The  bright  and  joyous  —  and  the  tearful  wail 
Of  stricken  ones  is  heard,  where  erst  the  song 
And  reckless  shout  resounded.     It  passed  o'er 
The  battle  plain,  where  sword,  and  spear,  and  shield 
Flashed  in  the  light  of  midday  —  and  the  strength 


200         GEORGE  DENISON  PRENTICE 

Of  serried  hosts  is  shivered,  and  the  grass, 
Green  from  the  soil  of  carnage,  waves  above 
The  crushed  and  moldering  skeleton.     It  came 
And  faded  like  a  wreath  of  mist  at  eve; 
Yet,  ere  it  melted  in  the  viewless  air, 
It  heralded  its  millions  to  their  home 
In  the  dim  land  of  dreams. 

Remorseless  Time !  — 

Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe !  —  what  power 
Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 
His  iron  heart  to  pity?     On,  still  on 
He  presses,  and  forever.     The  proud  bird, 
The  condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven's  unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 
The  fury  of  the  Northern  hurricane 
And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder's  home, 
Furls  his  broad  wings  at  nightfall  and  sinks  down 
To  rest  upon  his  mountain  crag, —  but  Time 
Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness, 
And  night's  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  bind 
His    rushing   pinion.     Revolutions   sweep 
O'er  earth,  like  troubled  visions  o'er  the  breast 
Of  dreaming  sorrow;  cities  rise  and  sink, 
Like  bubbles  on  the  water;  fiery  isles 
Spring,  blazing,  from  the  ocean,  and  go  back 
To  their  mysterious   caverns;   mountains   rear 
To  heaven  their  bald  and  blackened  cliffs,  and  bow 


GEORGE  DENISON  PRENTICE         201 

Their  tall  heads  to  the  plain;  new  empires  rise, 
Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries, 
And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  avalanche, 
Startling  the  nations;  and  the  very  stars, 
Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  God, 
Glitter  a  while  in  their  eternal  depths, 
And  like  the  Pleiad,  loveliest  of  their  train, 
Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres,  and  pass  away, 
To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void;  yet  Time, 
Time,  the  tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 
Dark,  stern,  all  pitiless,  and  pauses  not 
Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path, 
To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors, 
Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought. 


202       MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON 


MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON 

(Virginia:   1820-1897) 

FLOOD-TIDE 

To  every  artist,  howsoe'er  his  thought 

Unfolds  itself  before  the  eyes  of  men  — 

Whether   through    sculptor's    chisel,    poet's    pen, 

Or  painter's  wondrous  brush, —  there  comes,  full  fraught 

With  instant  revelation,   lightning-wrought, 

A  moment  of  supremest  heart-swell,  when 

The  mifid  leaps  to  the  tidal  crest,  and  then 

Sweeps  on  triumphant  to  the  harbor  sought. 

Wait,  eager  spirit,  till  the  topping  waves 
Shall  roll  their  gathering  strength  in  one,  and  lift 
From  out  the  swamping  trough  thy  galleon  free ; 
Mount  with  the  whirl,  command  the  rush  that  raves 
A  maelstrom  round;  then  proudly  shoreward  drift, 
Rich-freighted  as  an  Indian  argosy. 

THE  ANGEL  UNAWARE 

ABROAD  on  the  landscape  pale  and  cold, 
Blurred  with  a  patter  of  autumn  rain, 


MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON        203 

I  gazed,  and  questioned  if  it  could  hold 

Ever  the  sweet,  old  joy  again. 
The  color  had  faded  from  earth  and  sky, 

Mists  hung  low  where  the  light  had  lain, 
And  through  the  willows  a  fretful  sigh 

Moaned  as  their  branches  swept  the  pane. 

"My  days  must  darken  as  these/'  I  said  — 

"  Out  of  my  life  must  summer  go ; 
Its  russeted  memories,  dim  and  dead, 

Shiver  along  my  pathway  so; 
No  more  the  elastic  life  comes  back  — 

The  leap  of  heart  and  the  spirit-glow 
That  never  had  sense  of  loss  or  lack, 

Whether  my  lot  were  glad  or  no." 

But  here  on  my  musings  broke  a  child, 

Fresh  from  a  rush  in  the  pinching  air; 
And,  kissing  my  hand,  she  gayly  smiled, 

Speaking  no  word,  but  leaving  there 
A  handful  of  heart's-ease,  blithe  and  bright. 

What  had  become  of  my  cloud  of  care? 
It  had  haloed  itself  in  a  ring  of  light 

Over  the  angel  unaware! 


204        MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON 

WE  TWO 

AH,  painful-sweet !  how  can  I  take  it  in ! 

That  somewhere  in   the  illimitable  blue 

Of  God's  pure  space,  which  men  call  Heaven,  we  two 

Again  shall  find  each  other,  and  begin 

The  infinite  life  of  love,  a  life  akin 

To  angels, —  only  angels  never  knew 

The  ecstasy  of  blessedness  that  drew 

Us  to  each  other,  even  in  this  world  of  sin. 

Yea,  find  each  other!     The  remotest  star 

Of  all  the  galaxies  would  hold  in  vain 

Our  souls  apart,  that  have  been,  heretofore, 

As  closely  interchangeable  as  are 

One  mind  and  spirit :     Oh,  joy  that  aches  to  pain, 

To  be  together  —  we  two  —  forever  more ! 


JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL  205 


JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

(Maryland:  1839-1908) 

MY  MARYLAND 

THE  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland  !     My   Maryland  ! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  Mother-State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy   peerless   chivalry   reveal, 
,And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland  !     My   Maryland  ! 


206  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword   shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 

Remember  Carroll's   sacred  trust; 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland  !     My   Maryland  ! 

Come !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With    Watson's   blood   at    Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Dear  Mother !  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain  — 
"Sic  semper!"  'tis  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 


JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL  207 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come!  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng 
Walking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless   slogan-song, 

Maryland !     My  Maryland  ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the   soul. 

Maryland!     My  Maryland! 


208  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb; 
Huzza !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum ! 
She  breathes  —  she  burns  !  she'll  come  !  she'll  come  ! 

Maryland !     My  Maryland  ! 


IRWIN  RUSSELL  §09 


IRWIN  RUSSELL 

(Mississippi:  1853-1879) 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  BANJO 
From  "  Christmas  Night  in  the  Quarters  " 

Go  'way,  fiddle!  folks  is  tired  o'  hearin'  you  a-squawkin'; 
Keep  silence  fur  yo'  betters !  —  don't  you  heah  de  banjo 

talkin'?  ^ 

About   de   'possum's   tail   she's   gwine   to   lecter  —  ladies, 

listen !  — 
About  de  ha'r  whut  isn't  dar,  an'  why  de  ha'r  's  missin': 

"Bar's    gwine    to   be    a    oberflow,"    said    Noah,    lookin' 

solemn, — 
Fur  Noah  tuk    the    "Herald,"    an'    he    read    de    ribber 

column, — 

An'  so  he  sot  his  hands  to  wuk  a-cl'arin'  timber-patches, 
An'  'lowed  he's  gwine  to  build  a  boat  to  beat  the  steamah 

Natchez.  f 

Ol'  Noah  kep'  a-nailin'  an'  a-chippin'  an'  a-sawin'; 
An'  all  de  wicked  neighbors  kep'  a-laughin'  an'  a-pshawinj ; 
But  Noah  didn't  min'  'em,  knowin'  whut  wuz  gwine  to 

happen : 
An'  forty  days  an'  forty  nights  de  rain  it  kep'  a-drappin'. 


210  IRWIN  RUSSELL 

Now,    Noah    had    done    cotched    a    lot    ob    eb'ry    sort    o' 

beas'es, — 

Ob  all  de  shows  a-trabbelin',  it  beat  'em  all  to  pieces ! 
He  had  a  Morgan  colt  an'  seb'ral  head  o'  Jarsey  cattle, — 
An'  druv  'em  board  de  Ark  as  soon's  he  heerd  de  thunder 

rattle. 

Den  sech  anoder  fall  ob  rain !  —  it  come  so  awful  hebby, 

De  ribber  riz  immejitly,  an'  busted  troo  de  lebbee; 

De  people  all  wuz  drowned  out — 'cep'  Noah  an'  de  crit- 
ters, 

An'  men  he'd  hired  to  work  de  boat  —  an'  one  to  mix  de 
bitters. 

De  Ark  she  kep'  a-sailin'  an'  a-sailin'  an'  a-sailin'; 

De  lion  got  his  dander  up,  an'  like  to  bruk  de  palin' ; 

De  sarpints  hissed;  de  painters  yelled;  tell,  whut  wid  all 

de  fussin', 
You   c'u'dn't   hardly  heah   de  mate   a-bossin'   'roun'   an' 

cussin'. 

Now,  Ham,  de  only  nigger  whut  wuz  runnin'  on  de  packet, 
Got   lonesome    in   de    barber-shop*    an'    c'u'dn't   stan'    de 

racket ; 
An'  so,  fur  to  amuse  hese'f,  he  steamed  some  wood  an' 

bent  it, 
An'  soon  he  had  a  banjo  made  —  de  fust  dat  wuz  invented. 


IRWIN  RUSSELL 


He  wet  de  ledder,  stretched  it  on,  made  bridge  an'  screws 

an'  aprin; 

An'  fitted  in  a  proper  neck  —  'twuz  berry  long  an'  tap'rin'  ; 
He  tuk  some  tin,  an'  twisted  him  a  thimble  fur  to  ring  it; 
An'  den  de  mighty  question  riz  :  how  wuz  he  gwine  to 

string  it? 

De  'possum  had  as  fine  a  tail  as  dis  dat  I's  a-singin'; 
De  ha'r's  so  long  an'  thick  an'  strong,  —  des  fit  fur  banjo- 

stringin'  ; 
Dat  nigger  shaved  'em  off  as  short  as  washday-dinner 

graces  ; 
An*  sorted  ob  'em  by  de  size,  f'om  little  E's  to  basses. 

He  strung  her,  tuned  her,  struck  a  jig,  —  'twuz  "  Nebber 

min'  de  wedder,"  — 

She  sound'  like  forty-lebben  bands  a-playin'  all  together; 
Some  went  to  pattin';  some  to  dancin';  Noah  called  de 

figgers  ; 
An'  Ham  he  sot  an'  knocked  de  tune,  de  happiest  ob  de 

niggers  ! 

Now,  sence  dat  time  —  it's  mighty  strange  —  dere's  not 

de  slightes'  showin' 

Ob  any  ha'r  at  all  upon  de  'possum's  tail  a-growin'; 
An'  curi's,  too,  dat's  nigger's  ways:  his  people  nebber  los' 

'em,  — 
Fur  whar  you  finds  de  nigger  —  dar's  de  banjo  an'  de 

'possum  ! 


ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN 


ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN 

(Virginia:  1839-1886) 

THE  CONQUERED  BANNER 

FURL  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary; 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary; 

Furl  it,  fold  it, —  it  is  best; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it; 

Furl  it,  hide  it  — let  it  rest! 


Take  that  Banner  down !  'tis  tattered ; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh !  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it ; 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it; 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh ! 


ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN 


Furl  that  Banner  !  —  furl  it  sadly  ! 
Once  ten  thousand  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousand  wildly,   madly, 

Swore  it   should  forever  wave; 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs   entwined  dissever, 
Till  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave  ! 

Furl  it  !    for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low; 
And  that  Banner  —  it  is  trailing, 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it,  — 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it, 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it, 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it; 
And,   oh  !   wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  who  furl  and  fold  it  so  ! 

Furl  that  Banner  !     True,  'tis  gory, 
Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story 
Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust! 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 


ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN 


Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages,  — 
Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

Furl   that    Banner,   softly,    slowly  ! 
Treat  it  gently  —  it  is  holy, 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not  —  unfold  it  never; 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever,  — 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  dead! 

THE  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE 

FORTH  from  its  scabbard,  pure  and  bright, 

Flashed  the  sword  of  Lee  ! 
Far  in  the  front  of  the  deadly  fight, 

High  o'er  the  brave  in  the  cause  of  Right, 
Its  stainless  sheen,  like  a  beacon  light, 

Led   us   to   victory  ! 

Out  of  its  scabbard,  where,  full  long, 

It  slumbered  peacefully, 
Roused  from  its  rest  by  the  battle's  song, 
Shielding  the  feeble,  smiting  the  strong, 
Guarding  the  right,  avenging  the  wrong, 

Gleamed  the  sword  of  Lee  ! 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  high  in  air 

Beneath  Virginia's  sky  !  — 
And  they  who  saw  it  gleaming  there, 


ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN  £15 

And  knew  who  bore  it,  knelt  to  swear 
That  where  that  sword  led  they  would  dare 
To  follow  —  and  to   die  ! 

Out  of  its  scabbard !  —  never  hand 

Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free; 
Nor  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 
Nor  braver  bled  for  a  brighter  land, 
Nor  brighter  land  had  cause  so  grand, 

Nor  cause  a  chief  like  Lee ! 

Forth  from  its  scabbard !  —  how  we  prayed 

That  sword  might -victor  be! 
And  when  our  triumph  was  delayed, 
And  many  a  heart  grew  sore  afraid, 
We  still  hoped  on  while  gleamed  the  blade 

Of  noble  Robert  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  all  in  vain 

Bright  flashed  the  sword  of  Lee ! 
'Tis  shrouded  now  in  its  sheath  again, 
It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  our  noble  slain, 
Defeated,  yet  without  a   stain, 

Proudly  and  peacefully. 


216  GEORGE  HERBERT  SASS 


GEORGE  HERBERT  SASS 

(South  Carolina:  1845-1908) 

IN  A  KING-CAMBYSES  VEIN 

CAMBYSES,  King  of  the  Persians, 

Sat  with  his  lords  at  play 
Where  the  shades  of  the  broad  plane-branches 

Slanted  athwart  the  way. 

And  he  listened  and  heard  Prexaspes 

Tell  to  his  fellows  there 

• 

Of  a  Bactrian  bowman's  prowess 
And  skill  beyond  compare. 

And  the  heart  of  the  King  was  bitter, 
And  he  turned  and  said  to  him: 

"  Dost  see  on  the  greensward  yonder 
That  plane-tree's  slender  limb? 

"It  stands   far  off  in  the  gloaming  — 

Dost  think  thy  Bactrian  could 
With  a  single  shaft  unerring 

Smite  through  that   slender  wood  ?  " 


GEORGE  HERBERT  SASS  217 

"  But  nay/*  then  said  Prexaspes, 

"  Nor  ever  a  mortal  man 
Since  the  days  when  Nimrod  hunted 

Where  great  Euphrates   ran." 

Then  Cambyses,  son  of  Cyrus, 

Looked,  and  before  him  there 
Meres,  the  King's  cupbearer, 

Stood  where  the  wine  flowed  clear. 

Meres,   the  King's   cupbearer, 

Prexaspes'   only   son, 
And  the  heart  of  the  King  was  hardened, 

And  the  will  of  the  King  was  done. 

And  he  said:  "Bind  Meres  yonder 

To  the  plane-tree's  slender  stem, 
And  give  me  yon  sheaf  of  arrows 

And  the  bow  that  lies  by  them." 

And  so,  when  the  guards  had  bound  him 

He  drew  the  shaft  to  the  head; 
"  Give   heed !    give   heed,   Prexaspes, 

I  aim  for  the  heart ! "  he  said. 

Sharp   through   the   twilight   stillness 

Echoed  the  steel  bow's  twang; 
Loud  through  the  twilight  stillness 

The  courtiers'  plaudits  rang. 


218  GEORGE  HERBERT  SASS 

And  the  head  of  the  boy  drooped  downward, 
And  the  quivering  shaft  stood  still; 

And  the  King  said :  "  O,  Prexaspes, 
Match    I    thy    Bactrian's    skill?" 

Then  low  before  Cambyses 

The  Satrap  bowed  his  head  — 
"  O,   great   King,   live    forever ! 

Thou  hast  cleft  the  heart !  "  he  said 


JOHN  LANCASTER  SPALDING         219 


JOHN  LANCASTER  SPALDING 

(Kentucky:  1840 ) 

AT  THE  NINTH  HOUR 

ELI,  Eli,  lama  sabachthani? 

O  sadder  than  the  ocean's  wailing  moan, 

Sadder  than  homes  whence  life  and  joy  have  flown, 

Than  graves  where  those  we  love  in  darkness  lie; 

More  full  of  anguish  than  all  agony 

Of  broken  hearts,  forsaken  of  their  own 
And   left   in   hopeless    misery   alone, 

Is  this,  O  sweet  and  loving  Christ,  Thy  cry ! 

For  this,  this  only  is  infinite  pain: 

To  feel  that  God  Himself  has  turned  away. 

If  He  abide  all  loss  may  still  be  gain, 
And  darkest  night  be  beautiful  as  day. 

But  lacking  Him  the  universe  is  vain, 
And  man's  immortal  soul  is  turned  to  clay. 


220        JOHN  LANCASTER  SPALDING 

DEATH'S  GRAND  AVENUE 

THE  heavens  shall  grow  old;  be  cast  aside 
Like  out- worn  vesture ;  the  great  sun  shall  fail 
And  all  the  countless  host  of  stars  wax  pale 

And  on  the  earth  no  living  thing  abide ! 

This  is  the  voice  with  which  the  Blessed  Saviour  cried 
To  men,  who  on  time's  billowy  ocean  sail, 
Trusting  their  all  to  bottoms  that  are  frail, 

With  perishable  elements  for  guide. 

This  is  the  truth  which  science  utters  too, 

Teaching  that  suns  and  moons  and  earth  shall  die, 

That  boundless  space  is  death's  grand  avenue, 
Where  winds  the  funeral  march  of  earth  and  sky. 

Is  death  then  the  eternal  only  true, 
And  life,  but  a  despairing  wail,  a  lie? 

THE  PRAISE  OF  MEN 

WHY  wish  that  men  should  praise  me  when  I'm  dead? 

Now  all  alive  I  hold  their  praise  is  vain. 

It  can  not  give  content  nor  deaden  pain, 
Nor  bring  the  loved  who  into  darkness  fled, 

Nor  widen  my  life-current's  narrow  bed, 

Nor  lift  my  thought  and  love  to  higher  plane, 
Nor  win  for  me  an  everlasting  gain, 

Nor  place  unfading  wreath  upon  my  head. 


JOHN  LANCASTER  SPALDING 

What  need  of  praise  then  when  my  body  lies 
In  silent  earth  and  I  to  God  have  flown? 

But  if,  as  some  have  held,  the  soul  too  dies 
And  wholly  ceases,  .like  a  flame  outblown, 

To  praise  the  dead  is  worst  of  vanities 

And  meaningless  as  the  dull  ocean's  moan. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  MORNING 

How  many  a  time,  just  when  the  sun  up-glows, 
I  gently  brush  away  my  own  sweet  sleep, 
And  walk  into  the  balmy  air,  knee-deep 

In  clover,  rich  and  fragrant  as  the  rose, 

Along  a  little  stream  which,  singing,  flows 

Beneath  o'ershadowing  trees  whose  green  boughs  keep 
Their  silent  watch,  while  the  young  sunbeams  peep 

Through  leaves,  to  kiss  the  wave  that  prattling  goes. 

O  then,  I  hear  the  song  of  birds,  the  low 

Of  cattle,  and  the  hum  of  early  bees; 
Of  fresh-awakened  flowers  I  catch  the  glow, 

And  feel  the  odorous  kiss  'of  morning  breeze  ; 
The  startled  air  sends  forth  the  cock's  shrill  crow, 

And  the  whole  earth  with  joyful  thoughts  agrees. 


JOHN  LANCASTER  SPALDING 


THE  STARRY  HOST 

THE  countless  stars,  which  to  our  human  eye 
Are  fixed  and  steadfast,  each  in  proper  place, 
Forever  bound  to  changeless  points  in  space, 

Rush  with  our  sun  and  planets  through  the  sky, 

And  like  a  flock  of  birds  still  onward  fly; 
Returning  never  whence  began  their  race. 
They  speed  their  ceaseless  way  with  gleaming  face 

As  though  God  bade  them  win  Infinity. 

Ah,  whither,  whither  is  their  forward  flight 
Through  endless  time  and  limitless  expanse? 

What  Power  with  unimaginable  might 

First  hurled  them  forth  to  spin  in  tireless  dance? 

What  Beauty  lures  them  on  through  primal  night, 
So  that  for  them  to  be  is  to  advance? 


FRANK  LEBBY  STANTON 


FRANK  LEBBY  STANTON 

(South  Carolina:  1857-  -  ) 
LITTLE  ELAINE 

WHERE  have  you  gone,  little  Elaine, 

With  eyes  like  violets  wet  with  rain  — 

Silvery  April  rain  that  throws 

(Ah,  never  with  eyes  as  bright  as  those!) 

Melting  diamonds  over  the   rose. 

You  have  left  me  alone,  but  where  have  you  flown? 

God  knows,  my  dear,  God  knows  ! 

Where  have  you  gone,  little  Elaine, 

With  laughing  lips  of  the  crimson  stain  — 

Lips  that  smiled  as  the  sunlight  glows 

When  morning  breaks  like  a  white,  sweet  rose 

Over  the   wearisome   winter   snows? 

Shall  I  miss  their  song  my  whole  life  long? 

God  knows,  my  dear,  God  knows  ! 

You  have  left  me  lonely,  little  Elaine: 

I  call  to  you,  but  I  call  in  vain; 

I  sing  to  you  when  the  twilight  throws 

Its  dying  light  on  my  life's  last  rose, 

While  the  tide  of  memory  ebbs  and  flows. 

Is  it  God's  own  will  I  should  miss  you  still? 

God  knows,  my  dear,  God  knows  ! 


224?          HENRY  JEROME  STOCKARD 


HENRY  JEROME  STOCKARD 

(North  Carolina:  1858 ) 

SHAKESPEARE 

HE  heard  the  Voice  that  spake  and,  unafraid, 

Beheld  at  dawning  of  primeval  light 

The  systems  flame  to  being,  move  in  flight 

Unmeasured,  unimagined,  and  unstayed. 

He  stood  at  nature's  evening  and  surveyed 

Dissolved  worlds, —  saw  uncreated  night 

About  the  universe's  depth  and  height 

Slowly   and  silently    forever  laid. 

Down   the   pale   avenues   of  death   he  trod, 

And  trembling  gazed  on  scenes  of  hate  that  chilled 

His  blood,  and  for  a  breath  his  pulses  stilled, — 

Then   clouds   from  sun-bright  shores  a  moment  rolled 

And  blinded  glimpsed  he  One  with  thunder  shod, 

Crowned  with  the  stars,  and  with  the  morning  stoled ! 

AS  SOME  MYSTERIOUS  WANDERER  OF  THE 
SKIES 

An  some  mysterious  wanderer  of  the  skies. 
Emerging  from  the  deeps  of  outer  dark, 
Traces  for  once  in  human  ken  the  arc 
Of  its  stupendous  curve,  then  swiftly  flies 


HENRY  JEROME  STOCKARD    225 

Out  through  some  orbit  veiled  in  space,  which  lies 

Where  no  imagination  may  embark, — 

Some  onward-reaching  track  that  God  did  mark 

For  all  eternity  beneath  his  eyes, — 

So  comes  the  soul  forth  from  creation's  vast; 

So  clothed  with  mystery  moves  through  mortal  sight; 

Then  sinks  away  into  the  Great  Unknown. 

What  systems  it  hath  seen  in  all  the  past, 

What  worlds  shall  blaze  upon  its  future  flight, 

Thou  knowest,  eternal  God,  and  thou  alone ! 


226  JOHN  BANISTER  TABS 


JOHN  BANISTER  TABB 

(Virginia:   1845-1909) 

A  CRADLE-SONG 

SING  it,  Mother !  sing  it  low : 

Deem  it  not  an  idle  lay. 
In  heart  't  will  ebb  and  flow 

All  the  life-long  way. 

Sing  it,  Mother !  softly  sing, 
While  he  slumbers  on  thy  knee ; 

All  that  after-years  may  bring 
Shall  flow  back  to  thee. 

Sing  it,  Mother,  Love  is  strong! 

When  the  tears  of  manhood  fall, 
Echoes  of  thy  cradle-song 

Shall  its  peace  recall. 

Sing  it,  Mother!  when  his  ear 
Catcheth  first  the  Voice  Divine, 

Dying,  he  may  smile  to  hear 
What  he  deemeth  thine. 


JOHN  BANISTER  TABB 


FERN  SONG 

DANCE  to  the  beat  of  the  rain,  little  Fern, 
And  spread  out  your  palms  again, 

And  say,  "  Tho'  the  sun 

Hath  my  vesture  spun, 
He  had  labored,  alas,  in  vain, 

But  for  the  shade 

That  the  Cloud  hath  made, 
And  the  gift  of  the  Dew  and  the  Rain." 

Then  laugh  and  upturn 

All   your   fronds,   little   Fern, 
And  rejoice  in  the  beat  of  the  rain! 

KEATS 

UPON  thy  tomb  't  is  graven,  "  Here  lies  one 
Whose  name  is  writ  in  water."     Could  there  be 
A  flight  of  Fancy  fitlier  feigned  for  thee, 

A  fairer  motto  for  her  favorite  son? 

For,  as  the  wave,  thy  varying  numbers  run  — 
Now  crested  proud  in  tidal  majesty, 
Now  tranquil  as  the  twilight  reverie 

Of  some  dim  lake  the  white  moon  looks  upon 

While  teems  the  world  with  silence.     Even  there, 

In  each  Protean  rainbow-tint  that  stains 
The  breathing  canvas  of  the  atmosphere, 


228  JOHN  BANISTER  TABB 

We  read  an  exhalation,  of  thy  strains. 
Thus,  on  the  scroll  of  Nature,  everywhere, 
Thy  name,   a  deathless   syllable,   remains. 


MAGADALEN 

(After  Swinburne) 
"  SHE  hath  done  what  she  could," 
It  was  thus  that  He  spake  of  her, 

Trembling  and  pale  as  the  penitent  stood. 
"And  this  she  hath  done  shall  be  told  for  the  sake 

of  her, 

Told  as  embalmed  in  the  gift  that  I   take  of  her, 
Take,  as  an  earnest  of  all  that  she  would 
Who  hath  done  what  she  could. 

"  She  hath  done  what  she  could : 
Lo,  the  flame  that  hath  driven  her 

Downward,  is  quenched !  and  her  grief  like  a  flood 
In  the  strength  of  a  rain-swollen  torrent  hath  shriven 

her: 
Much  hath  she  loved  and  much  is  forgiven  her; 

Love  in  the  longing  fulfills  what  it  would  — 

She  hath  done  what  she  could." 


JOHN  BANISTER  TABB  229 

O'ERSPENT 

MY  soul  is  as  a  fainting  noonday  star, 

And  thou,   the   absent  night; 
Haste,  that  thy  healing  shadow  from  afar 

May  touch  me  into  light. 

ON  THE  FORTHCOMING  VOLUME  OF   SIDNEY 
LANIER'S  POEMS 

SNOW  !  Snow !   Snow  ! 

Do  thy  worst,  Winter,  but  know,  but  know 
That,    when   the    Spring   cometh,    a    blossom    shall    blow 
From  the  heart  of  the  Poet  that  sleeps  below, 
And  his  name  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  shall  go, 
In  spite  of  the  snow ! 

SOLITUDE 

THOU  wast  to  me  what  to  the  changing  year 
Its  seasons  are, — a  joy  forever  new; 
What  to  the  night  its  stars,  its  heavenly  dew, 

Its  silence;  what  to  dawn  its  lark-song  clear; 

To  noon,  its  light — its  fleckless  atmosphere, 
Where  ocean  and  the  overbending  blue, 
In  passionate  communion,  hue  for  hue, 

As  one  in  Love's  circumference  appear. 


230  JOHN  BANISTER  TABB 

O  brimming  heart,  with  tears  for  utterance 
Alike  of  joy  and  sorrow!  lift  thine  eyes 

And  sphere  the  desolation.     Love  is  flown; 
And  in  the  desert's  widening  expanse 

:Grim   Silence,  like  a  sepulchre  of  stone, 
Stands  charneling  a  soul's  funereal  sighs. 


THE  BUBBLE 

WHY  should  I  stay?  Nor  seed  nor  fruit  have  I, 
But,  sprung  at  once  to  beauty's  perfect  round, 
Nor  loss,  nor  gain,  nor  change  in  me  is  found, — 

A  life-complete  in  death-complete  to  die. 


THE  DRUID 

GODLIKE  beneath  his  grave  divinities, 
The  last  of  all  their  worshipers,  he  stood. 
The  shadows  of  a  vanished  multitude 

Enwound  him,  and  their  voices  in  the  breeze 

Made  murmur,  while  the  meditative  trees 

Reared  of  their  strong  fraternal  branches  rude 

A  temple  meet  for  prayer.     What  blossoms  strewed 

The  path  between  Life's  morning  hours  and  these? 

What  lay  beyond  the  darkness?    He  alone 

The  sunshine  and  the  shadow  and  the  dew 


JOHN  BANISTER  TABB  231 

Had  shared  alike  with  leaf,  and  flower,  and  stem: 
Their  life  had  been  his  lesson;  and  from  them 

A   dream   of   immortality   he  drew, 
As  in  their  fate  foreshadowing  his  own. 

THE  PLAINT  OF  THE  ROSE 

SAID  the  budding  Rose,  "  All  night 
Have  I  dreamed  of  the  joyous  light: 

How  long  doth  my  lord  delay ! 
Come,  Dawn,  and  kiss  from  mine  eyes  away 
The  dewdrops  cold  and  the  shadows  gray, 

That  hide  thee  from  my  sight !  " 

Said  the    full-blown   Rose,   "O    Light! 
(So   fair   to   the   dreamer's   sight!) 

"  How  long  doth  the  dew  delay ! 
Come  back,  sweet  sister  shadows  gray, 
And  lead  me  home  from  the  world  away, 

To  the  calm  of  the  cloister  Night ! " 


WILL  HENRY  THOMPSON 


WILL  HENRY  THOMPSON 

(Georgia:  1848 ) 

THE  HIGH  TIDE  AT  GETTYSBURG 

A  CLOUD  possessed  the  hollow  field 
The  gathering  battle's   smoky  shield. 

Athwart   the   gloom  the   lightning  flashed, 
And  through  the  cloud  some  horsemen  dashed, 
And  from  the  heights  the  thunder  pealed. 

Then  at  the  brief  command  of  Lee 

Moved  out  that  matchless  infantry, 

With  Pickett  leading  grandly  down, 
To  rush  against  the  roaring  crown 

Of  those  dread  heights  of  destiny. 

Far  heard  above  the  angry  guns 
A  cry  across  the  tumult  runs, — 

The  voice  that  rang  through  Shiloh's  woods 

And  Chickamauga's  solitudes, 
The  fierce  South  cheering  on  her  sons ! 

Ah,  how  the  withering  tempest  blew 
Against  the   front   of   Pettigrew ! 


WILL  HENRY  THOMPSON  233 

A  Khamsin  wind  that  scorched  and  singed 

Like  that  infernal  flame  that  fringed 
The  Britsh  squares  at  Waterloo ! 

A  thousand  fell  where  Kemper  led; 

A  thousand  died  where  Garnett  bled; 

In  blinding  flame  and  strangling  smoke 
The  remnant  through  the  batteries  broke 

And  crossed  the  works  with  Armistead. 

"  Once  more  in  glory's  van  with  me ! " 

Virginia  cried  Tennessee; 

"  We  two  together,  come  what  may 
Shall  stand  upon  these  works  to-day ! " 

(The  reddest  day  in  history.) 

. 

Brave  Tennessee !     In  reckless  way 

Virginia  heard   her   comrade   say: 

"  Close  round  this  rent  and  riddled  rag !  " 
What  time   she   sets   her   battle-flag 

Amid  the  guns  of  Doubleday. 

But  who  shall  break  the  guards  that  wait 

Before  the  awful  face  of  Fate? 

The  tattered  standards  of  the  South 
Were  shriveled  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 

And  all  her  hopes  were  desolate. 


234  WILL  HENRY  THOMPSON 

In  vain  the  Tennesseean  set 

His  breast  against  the  bayonet ! 

In  vain  Virginia's  charged  and  raged, 
A  tigress  in  her  wrath  uncaged, 

Till  all  the  hill  was  red  and  wet ! 

Above  the  bayonets,  mixed  and  crossed, 
Men   saw   a  gray,   gigantic   ghost 
Receding  through  the  battle-cloud, 
And  heard  across  the  tempest  loud 
The  death  cry  of  a  nation  lost! 

The  brave  went  down !     Without   disgrace 
They  leaped  to  Ruin's  red  embrace, 

They  only  heard  Fame's  thunders  wake, 
And  saw  the  dazzling  sun-burst  break 
In  smiles  on  Glory's  bloody  face! 

They  fell,  who  lifted  up  a  hand 

And  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to  stand ! 

They  smote  and  fell,  who  set  the  bars 
Against  the  progress   of  the   stars, 
And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland! 

They  stood,  who  saw  the  future  come 
On  through  the  fight's  delirium ! 

They  smote  and  stood,  who  held  the  hope 
Of  nations  on  that  slippery  slope 
Amid  the  cheers  of  Christendom. 


WILL  HENRY  THOMPSON  235 

God  lives !     He   forged  the  iron  will 
That  clutched  and  held  that  trembling  hill. 
God  lives  and  reigns !     He  built  and  lent 
The  heights  for  Freedom's  battlement 
Where  floats  her  flag  in  triumph  still ! 

Fold  up  the  banners !     Smelt  the  guns ! 
Love   rules.     Her   gentler  purpose   runs. 

The  mighty  mother  turns  in  tears 

The  pages  of  her  battle  years, 
Lamenting  all  her  fallen  sons ! 


FRANCIS  ORRAY  TICKNOR 


FRANCIS  ORRAY  TICKNOR 

(Georgia:   1822-1874) 

"  LITTLE  GIFFEN  " 

OUT  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 
Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire; 
Smitten  of  grape-shot  and  gangrene, 
(Eighteenth  battle,  and  he  sixteen!) 
Specter !  such  as  you  seldom  see, 
"Little  Giffen,"  of  Tennessee! 

"Take  him  and  welcome!"  the  surgeons  said; 
"  Little   the   doctor   can   help   the   dead ! " 
So  we  took  him;  and  brought  him  where 
The  balm  was  sweet  in  the  summer  air; 
And  we  laid  him  down  on  a  wholesome  bed, — 
Utter  Lazarus,   heel   to  head ! 

And  we  watched  the  war  with  abated  breath, — 
Skeleton  Boy  against  skeleton  Death. 
Months  of  torture,  how  many  such? 
Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch; 
And  still  a  glint  of  the  steel-blue  eye 
Told  of  a  spirit  that  wouldn't  die, 


FRANCIS  ORRAY  TICKNOR  237 

And    didn't.     Nay,    more !    in    death's    despite 
The  crippled  skeleton  "  learned  to  write." 
"  Dear  mother,"  at  first,  of  course ;  and  then 
"  Dear  captain,"  inquiring  about  the  men. 
Captain's  answer :  "  Of  eighty-and-five, 
Giffen  and  I  are  left  alive." 

Word  of  gloom  from  the  war,  one  day; 

Johnson  pressed  at  the  front,  they  say. 

Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away ; 

A   tear  —  his   first  —  as   he   bade   good-by, 

Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye. 

"  I'll    write,    if    spared ! "     There    was   news   of   the 

fight; 
But  none  of  Giffen. —  He  did  not  write. 

I  sometimes  fancy  that,  were  I  king 

Of  the  princely  Knights  of  the  Golden  Ring, 

With  the  song  of  the  minstrel  in  mine  ear, 

And  the  tender  legend  that  trembles  here, 

I'd  give  the  best  on  his  bended  knee, 

The    whitest   soul    of   my   chivalry, 

For  "Little   Giffen,"   of  Tennessee. 


THE  SWORD  IN  THE  SEA 

THE  billows  plunge  like  steeds  that  bear 
The  knights  with  snow-white  crests; 


238  FRANCIS  ORRAY  TICKNOR 

The  sea-winds  blare  like  bugles  where 
The  Alabama  rests. 

Old   glories    from   their   splendor-mists 
Salute   with  trump   and  hail, 

The  sword  that  held  the  ocean  lists 
Against  the  world  in  mail. 

And  down  from  England's  storied  hills, 
From  lyric  slopes  of  France, 

The  old  bright  wine  of  valor  fills 
The    chalice    of    Romance. 

For  here  was   Glory's   tourney-field, 

The  tilt-yard  of  the  sea; 
The   battle-path   of  kingly  wrath, 

And  kinglier   courtesy. 

And  down  the  deeps,  in  sumless   heaps, 
The  gold,  the  gem,  the  pearl, 

In  one  broad  blaze  of  splendor,  belt 
Great  England  like  an  earl. 

And  there  they  rest,  the  princeliest 

Of  earth's  regalia  gems, 
The  starlight  of  our   Southern  Cross, 

The  sword  of  Raphael  Semmes. 


HENRY  TIMIIOD  239 

HENRY  TIMROD 

(South  Carolina:  1829-1867) 

AT  MAGNOLIA  CEMETERY 

SLEEP  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 

Sleep,   martyrs    of   a   fallen   cause; 
Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 

The  pilgrim  here  to   pause. 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 
And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 

The   shaft   is   in   the   stone ! 

Meanwhile,   behalf   the   tardy   years 
Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold !    your   sisters   bring  their  tears, 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 

Small  tributes !  but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 

Than  when  some  cannon-molded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this   bay. 

Stoop,    angels,   hither   from   the    skies ! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where   defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned. 


240  HENRY  TIMROD 


HYMN 

[Sung  at  the  consecration  of  Magnolia  Cemetery,  Charles- 
ton, S.  C] 

WHOSE  was  the  hand  that  painted  thee,  O  Death! 

In  the  false  aspect  of  a  ruthless  foe, 
Despair  and  sorrow  waiting  on  thy  breath, — 

O  gentle  Power !  who  could  have  wronged  thee  so  ? 

Thou  rather  should'st  be  crowned  with  fadeless  flowers, 

Of  lasting  fragrance  and  celestial  hue; 
Or  be  thy  couch  amid  funereal  bowers, 

But  let  the  stars  and  sunlight  sparkle  through. 

So,  with  these  thoughts  before  us,  we  have  fixed 
And  beautified,   O   Death !   thy  mansion  here, 

Where  gloom  and  gladness  —  grave  and  garden  —  mixed, 
Make  it  a  place  to  love,  and  not  to  fear. 

Heaven !  shed  thy  most  propitious  dews  around ! 

Ye  holy  stars !  look  down  with  tender  eyes, 
And  gild  and  guard  and  consecrate  the  ground 

Where  we  may  rest,  and  whence  we  pray  to  rise. 


HENRY  TIMROD  241 


SONNETS 


ARE  these   wild  thoughts,   thus   fettered   in   my  rhymes, 

Indeed  the  product  of  my  heart  and  brain? 

How  strange  that  on  my  ear  the  rhythmic  strain 

Falls  like  faint  memories  of  far  off  times ! 

When   did  I    feel  the   sorrow,   act   the   part, 

Which  I  had  striven  to  shadow  forth  in  song? 

In  what  dead  century  swept  that  mingled  throng 

Of  mighty  pains  and  pleasures  through  my  heart? 

Not  in  the  yesterday  of  that  still  life, 

Which  I  have  passed  so  free  and  far  from  strife  — 

But  somewhere  in  this  weary  world,  I  know, 

In  some  strange  land,  beneath  some  Orient  clime 

I  saw  or  shared  a  martyrdom  sublime, 

And  felt  a  deeper  grief  than  any  later  woe. 

II 

Some  truths  there  be  are  better  left  unsaid; 
Much  is  there  that  we  may  not  speak  unblamed. 
On  words,  as  wings,  how  many  joys  have  fled! 
The  jealous   fairies   love   not   to   be   named. 
There  is  an  old-world  tale  of  one  whose  bed 
A  genius  graced,  to  all,  save  him,  unknown; 
One  day  the  secret  passed  his  lips,  and  sped 
As  secrets  speed  —  thenceforth  he  slept  alone. 


HENRY  TIMROD 


Too  much,  oh  !  far  too  much  is  told  in  books  ; 
Too  broad  a  daylight  wraps  us  all  and  each. 
Ah  !  it  is  well  that,  deeper  than  our  looks 
Some  secrets  lie  beyond  conjecture's  reach. 
Ah  !  it  is  well  that  in  the  soul  are  nooks 
That  will  not  open  to  the  keys  of  speech. 

Ill 

I  scarcely  grieve,  O  Nature  !  at  the  lot 

That  pent  my  life  within  a  city's  bounds, 

And   shut   me   from  thy  sweetest   sights   and   sounds. 

Perhaps  I  had  not  learned,  if  some  lone  cot 

Had  nursed  a  dreamy  childhood,  what  the  mart 

Taught  me  amid  its  turmoil;  so  my  youth 

Had  missed   full   many   a   stern   but   wholesome   truth. 

Here,  too,  O  Nature!  in  this  haunt  of  Art, 

Thy  power  is  on  me,  and  I  own  thy  thrall. 

There  is  no  unimpressive  spot  on  earth  ! 

The  beauty  of  the  stars  is  over  all, 

And  Day  and  Darkness  visit  every  hearth. 

Clouds  do  not  scorn  us:  yonder  factory's  smoke 

Looked  like  a  golden  mist  when  morning  broke. 

IV 

Most  men  know  love  but  as  a  part  of  life; 
They  hide  it  in  some  corner  of  the  breast, 
Even  from  themselves;  and  only  when  they  rest 


HENRY  TIMROD  243 

In  the  brief  pauses  of  that  daily  strife, 
Wherewith   the   world  might  else  be  not   so  rife, 
They  draw  it  forth  (as  one  draws  forth  a  toy 
To  soothe  some  ardent,  kiss-exacting  boy) 
And  hold  it  up  to  sister,  child,  or  wife. 
Ah  me !  why  may  not  love  and  life  be  one  ? 
Why  walk  we  thus  alone,  when  by  our  side, 
Love,   like  a  visible   god,   might  be  our   guide? 
How  would  the  marts  grow  noble!  and  the  street, 
Worn  like  a  dungeon-floor  by  weary  feet, 
Seem  then  a  golden  court-way  of  the  Sun ! 


Life  ever  seems   as   from  its   present  site 
It  aimed  to  lure  us.     Mountains  of  the  past 
It  melts,  with  all  their  crags  and  caverns  vast, 
Into  a  purple  cloud !     Across  the  night 
Which  hides  what  is  to  be,  it  shoots  a  light 
All  rosy  with  the  yet  unrisen  dawn. 
Not  the  near  daisies,  but  yon  distant  height 
Attracts  us,  lying  on  this  emerald  lawn. 
And  always,  be  the  landscape  what  it  may  — 
Blue,  misty  hill,  or  sweep  of  glimmering  plain  - 
It  is  the  eye's  endeavor  still  to  gain 
The  fine,  faint  limit  of  the  bounding  day. 
God,   haply,   in  this   mystic   mode,   would   fain 
Hint  of  a  happier  home,  far,  far  away ! 


244       AMELIE  RIVES  TROUBETZKOY 


AMELIE  RIVES  TROUBETZKOY 

(Virginia:    1863 ) 

A  MOOD 

IT  is  good  to  strive  against  wind  and  rain. 

In  the  keen,  sweet  weather  that  autumn  brings. 
The  wild  horse  shakes  not  the  drops  from  his  mane, 

The  wild  bird  flicks  not  the  wet  from  her  wings, 
In  gladder  fashion  than  I  toss  free 

The  mist-dulled  gold  of  my  bright  hair's  flag, 

What  time  the  winds  on  their  heel-wings  lag, 
And  all  the  tempest  is  friends  with  me. 
None  can  reach  me  to  wound  or  cheer; 

Sound  of  weeping  and  sound  of  song  — 
Neither  may  trouble  me:  I  can  hear 

But  the  wind's  loud  laugh,  and  the  sibilant,  strong, 
Lulled  rush  of  the  rain  through  the  sapless   weeds. 

0  rare,  dear  days,  ye  are  here  again ! 

1  will  woo  ye  as  maidens  are  wooed  of  men, — 
With  oaths  forgotten  and  broken  creeds! 

Ye   shall   not  lack   for   the   sun's   fierce   shining  — 
With  the  gold  of  my  hair  will  I  make  ye  glad; 

For  your  blown,  red  forests  give  no  repining  — 
Here  are  my  lips :  will  ye  still  be  sad  ? 


AMELIE  RIVES  TROUBETZKOY 


Comfort  ye,  comfort  ye,  days  of  cloud, 
Days  of  shadow,  of  wrath,  of  blast  — 
I  who  love  ye  am  come  at  last. 

Laugh  to  welcome  me !  cry  aloud ! 


For  wild  am  I  as  thy  winds  and  rains  — 

Free  to  come  and  to  go  as  they; 
Love's  moon  sways  not  the  tides  of  my  veins; 

There  is  no  voice  that  can  bid  me  stay. 
Out  and  away  on  the  drenched,  brown  lea ! 

Out  to  the  great,  glad  heart  of  the  year ! 

Nothing  to  grieve   for,   nothing  to   fear, — 
Fetterless,  lawless,  a  maiden  free! 


BEFORE  THE  RAIN 

THE  blackcaps  pipe  among  the  reeds, 
And  there'll  be  rain  to  follow; 

There  is  a  murmur  as  of  wind 
In  every  coign  and  hollow; 

The  wrens  do  chatter  of  their  fears 

While  swinging  on  the  barley-ears. 


246       AMELIE  RIVES  TROUBETZKOY 

Come,  hurry,  while  there  yet  is  time, 

Pull  up  thy  scarlet  bonnet. 
Now,  sweetheart,  as  my  love  is  thine, 

There  is  a  drop  upon  it. 
So  trip  it  ere  the  storm-hag  weird 
Doth  pluck  the  barley  by  the  beard! 

Lo !  not  a  whit  too  soon  we're  housed; 

The  storm-witch  yells  above  us; 
The  branches  rapping  on  the  panes 

Seem  not  in  truth  to  love  us. 
And  look  where  through  the  clover  bush 
The  nimble-footed  rain  doth  rush ! 


AMELIE  RIVES  TROUBETZKOY       247 


A  SONNET 

TAKE  all  of  me, —  I  am  thine  own,  heart,  soul, 

Brain,  body, —  all ;  all  that  I  am  or  dream 

Is  thine  forever;  yea,  though  space  should  teem 

With  thy  conditions,  I'd  fulfill  the  whole  — 

Were  to  fulfill  them  to  be  loved  of  thee. 

Oh,  love  me !  —  were  to  love  me  but  a  way 

To  kill  me  —  love  me;  so  to  die  would  be 

To  live  forever.     Let  me  hear  thee  say 

Once  only,  "Dear,  I  love  thee,"— then  all  life 

Would  be  one  sweet  remembrance,  thou  its  king: 

Nay,  thou   art  that  already,   and  the   strife 

Of   twenty  worlds   could  not  uncrown  thee.     Bring, 

O  Time !  my  monarch  to  possess  his  throne 

Which  is  my  heart  and  for  himself  alone. 


248    BEVERLEY  DANDRIDGE  TUCKER 


BEVERLEY  DANDRIDGE  TUCKER 

(Virginia:  1846 ) 

THE  RHONE  AND  THE  ARVE 

The  Rhone  has  for  its  source  several  springs,,  near  the 
Glacier  du  Rhone,  and  Hows  through  the  Canton  of  the 
Valais,  between  the  parted  Alps,  until  its  current  is  lost  in 
Lake  Leman.  On  one  side  of  the  Savoy  Alps  rise  precip- 
itously; on  the  other  side  slope  the  Jorat  Hills,  terraced 
with  vineyards  and  cloven,  here  and  there,  by  valleys  and 
ravines,  covered  with  wild  narcissus.  At  Geneva  the 
Rhone  rushes  swiftly  from  the  lake,  uniting  with  the 
Arve  a  few  miles  below  the  town. 

The  Arve  rises  In  the  valley  of  Chamounl,  one  of  Its 
sources  gushing  forth  from  the  Sea  of  Ice  at  the  base  of 
Mount  Blanc.  It  breaks  through  the  valley  at  the  Gorge 
de  Serroz.  When  it  joins  the  Rhone  its  snowy  waters 
•flow  in  the  same  channel  with  the  clear  blue  waters  of  the 
latter,  until  at  last,  their  colors  mingling,  they  How  on 
together  through  the  fields  of  France,  to  the  Mediter- 
ranean. 


BEVERLEY  DANDRIDGE  TUCKER    249 


CAN  they  ever  come  together, 
Can  they  meet  and  kiss  each  other, 
The  two  rivers  Fate  has  parted?  — 
Winsome  Rhone,  who,  like  a  maiden, 
In  the  Valais  springs  and  bubbles, 
Like   a   maiden   merry-hearted, 
Careless-footed,  all  unladen 
Of  Life's  troubles;  — 


II 


Eager  Arve,  that  stays   and   shivers, 
But  a  moment,  ere  he  quivers, 
Ere  he  rushes  thro'  th'   embrasure 
Of  his  icy,   dreary  prison. 

How  he  shouts  in  gleeful   madness 
As  he  hastens  from  the  glacier 
On  to  where  the  sun's  uprisen 
In  its  gladness ! 

Ill 

Ah!  the  Rhone,   she  swiftly  passes, 
Down  the  crags  and  thro'  crevasses, — 
None  can  stay  nor  follow  after;  — 
But  she  may  not  pass  on  over 
The  grim  Alps  that  gaze  in  wonder 


250     BEVERLEY  DANDRIDGE  TUCKER 

Tho'  she  cry,  with  merry  laughter, 
"  Let  me  by,  for  I've  a  lover 
Over  yonder !  " 

IV 

Then  she  turns,  and  softly  sighing, 
Thro'  the  Valais  swiftly  hieing, 

Past   the    mountains, —  silent    wardens, 
By   the   valley   kept   asunder, — 

Flees  unheeding  clouds  that  hover, 
Thro'  the  fields  and  scented  gardens, — 
And  she  whispers,  "  Over  yonder 
I've  a  lover  !  " 


Ah !  the  Arve, —  the  King  of  mountains 
Can  not  chain  his  eager  fountains 
With  his  snows  and  ice  eternal !  — 
On  he  hastens  never  heeding 

Avalanche   nor   roar   of  thunder 
Murm'ring,  through  the  valley  vernal, 
"To  a  river  I  am  speeding, 
Over  yonder !  " 

VI 

And  the  Rhone  is  flowing  faster, 
In  her  quest  to  meet  her  master, 


BEVERLEY  DANDRIDGE  TUCKER     251 

Who  shall  help  her  seek  the  ocean, — 
On  —  by  towns  and  hamlets  turning, 

On  —  by  village  bridges -under, 
On  —  with    swift    unbroken    motion, — 
For   the   lover   ever   yearning 
Over  yonder ! 

VII 

Ah!  the  Rhone,  the  placid  Leman, 
Like  some  fair  and  treach'rous  demon, 
Like  some  fair,  relentless  ogress, — 
As  the  siren  with  Ulysses, 

By  her   jealous    arts   divining, 
Tries  to  bar  and  stay  her  progress, 
Tries  to  silence   (hush  with  kisses) 
Love's   repining! 

VIII 

And  the  Alps,  whose  peaks  discover, 
On  the  other  side  her  lover, — 

Gray,  grim  Alps,  of  love  abhorrent !  — 
Try  to  keep  the  lovers  parted; 

And  the   lake   she's   resting  under 
With  her  magic   stills   her   torrent, 
Till   the  Arve   is   broken-hearted, 
Over  yonder ! 


BEVERLEY  DANDRIDGE  TUCKER 

IX 

But  the  Jorat,  more  unbending, 
To   the   lake-side   slowly   wending, 
Tells  the  river  "  Would  you  kiss  us, 
You  may  surely  pass  on  over, 

Where  our  vineyards  part  asunder, 
"Thro'  our  vales   of  sweet  narcissus." 
But  she  answers,  "  I've  no  lover 
Over  yonder !  " 


And  the  Arve,  he  hastens  ever, 
With  a  restless,  strong  endeavor, 

Thro'    the   valley    mountain-bounded,- 
And  he  hammers,  till  he  crushes 

Down   his   prison's   last   reliance,- 
Till,    as   when   a   stag   is   hounded, 
Thro'  the  rocky  gorge  he  rushes 
In   defiance ! 

XI 

And   the   tender,    soft   beguiling, 
Of  the  fragrant  fields  and  smiling, 
And  the  bell,  at  matins  ringing, 
Can   not    stay   his    eager    flowing; 
And  the  Vesper  bell  unheeding, 


BEVERLEY  DANDRIDGE  TUCKER     253 

On  he  glances,  lightly  singing, 
"  To  my  loved  one  I  am  going, 
I  am  speeding !  " 

XII 

But  the  Rhone  is  bolder,  bolder, 
For,  at  last,  a  something's  told  her, 

That  tho'  strong  the  walls  that  bound  her, 
Yet  the  stream  of  her  existence 

Is  not   spent,  tho'   scarcely  moving, — 
So  she  looks  and  looks  beyond  her, 
With  a  maiden's  fond  persistence 
In  her  loving! 

XIII 

As   the   fates   her   love   embolden, 
She  perceives  a  city  olden, 
Where    the    mountains    watch    no    longer. 
Then  beneath  the  bridges  darting, — 

Where  the  children  gaze  in  wonder, — 
On   she   hastens,    swifter,    stronger, 
As   she   whispers,    "  There's   no   parting 
Over  yonder !  " 

XIV 

O  the  rapture  rare  of  meeting, 
O  the  music  sweet  of  greeting, 


254    BEVERLEY  DANDRIDGE  TUCKER 

When  at  last  the  barrier's  broken ! 
Now   (the  weary  sun  descending) 

On  the  mountain   heights   in   distance 
Is  the  purple  flush,  the  token 

Of  their  wrath  as  comes  the  ending 
Of   resistance. 

XV 

And  now  close, —  all  partings  ended, — 
In  one  channel  still  unblended, 
Are  the  Arve  and  Rhone  together ; 
Here  the  water  gray  and  troubled 

With  the  battling  fierce   with   mountains, 
But  as  crystal  blue  the  other 
As  when  first  it  gushed  and  bubbled 
Sunny  fountains. 

XVI 

But  at  last  their  currents  merging 
After  Love's  impetuous  urging 

Flows  the  river  —  twain  no  longer! 
And  the  hand  of  fate  can  never 
Part  the   lovers   thus   united, — 
Gentler  one,  the  other  stronger, 
When  their  troth  for  now  and  ever 
They   have    plighted! 


BEVERLEY  DANDRIDGE  TUCKER    255 

XVII 

On  —  thro'  clover-scented  meadows, 
On  —  in    gloomy    mountain    shadows, 
Flow  the  wedded  streams  together; 
And  they  glide   with   quiet   motion, — 
Or  they  speed  with  roar  of  thunder, 
Whisp'ring  oft  to  one  another, 
As  they  seek  to  reach  the  ocean, 
"Rest  is  yonder!" 

XVIII 

Now  the  current  moves  more  slowly, 
With  a  requiem  sad  and  lowly, 
Where  the  velvet  mantle  covers 
Weary   forms   in   silence  sleeping. 

Now,    as   sing   and   sail   the   maidens, 
In    barges   near   their    lovers, 
On  it   courses,   ever  keeping 
Gentle  cadence, 

XIX 

Till  the  River,  young  no  longer, 
Growing   wider,   deeper,    stronger, 
Plays  its  part  in  Life's  endeavor! 
And  by  busy  cities  flowing, — 
On   the   bosoms   Love   has   mated, 


256     BEVERLEY  DANDRIDGE  TUCKER 

On   the  bosoms   none   can  sever, — 
Are  the  Vessels  coming,  going, 
Treasure-freighted. 

XX 

But,  at  last,  the  daylight  dimmer, — 
Lo,  the  Moon  begins  to  glimmer 
On  the  Ocean  over  yonder !  — 
And  the  streams  that  sought  each  other, 

In   the   valley   fair  and  vernal, 
And  the  lovers  none  could  sunder 
Find  forever,  find  together 
Rest  eternal! 


SEVERN  TEACKLE  WALLIS  257 


SEVERN  TEACKLE  WALLIS 

(Maryland:  1816-1894) 

DEJECTION 

OH  God !  to  see  the  swelling  stream 

Of  happiness  roll  on  !  — 
To  count  the  blessed  barks,  that  gleam 
In  morning's  flush  and  evening's  beam, 

Each   on   its   journey   gone; 
And  feel  that,  by  the  lonely  shore, 

Mine  creeps,  a  laggard,  still, 
While  not  a  breeze  that  blew  of  yore 
Comes  back,  with  freshness,  as  before, 

Its  drooping  sails  to  fill ! 

Oh  say  not  to  me,  to  deride, 

That,  of  that  better  day, 
In   waste,   in   passion,   or   in   pride, 
Unmindful  of  the  fleeting  tide, 

I  flung  the  hours  away ! 
Not  mine  the  weakness  or  the  sin 

Of   golden   chances   spurned  — 
To  toil  and  hope  is  not  to  win; 


258  SEVERN  TEACKLE  WALLIS 

We  end  not  all   that  we  begin, 
Nor  gather   all   we've   earned ! 

There's  not  a  poisoned  seed  we  sow, 

Of  folly  or  of  crime, 
But  surely  will  to  rankness  grow, 
And  bear  its  certain  fruit  of  woe, 

In  its  appointed  time: 
But,  from  the  germs  of  better  things 

We  planted  in  our  youth, 
How  few  the  flowers  that  summer  flings, 
How  rare  the  fruit  that  autumn  brings, 

To  bless  our  trust  and  truth ! 

Men  hold  it  ill,  at  Fate  to  rail, 

When  all  is  ruled  by  Heaven; 
But  when,  e'en  at  our  best,  we  fail, 
And,  trim  we  as  we  will  our  sail, 

On  rock§  and  shoals  we're  driven, — 
Though  we  may  feel  'tis   Heaven's  high  plan, 

And  bend  beneath  our  lot, — 
Yet,  if  we  be  no  more  than  marr, 
Resigned  we  may  be,   if  we  can, 

Contented  we   are   not! 


SEVERN  TEACKLE  WALLIS  259 

THE  CURFEW 

AH  why,  when  life's  dim  eve  comes  on, 
Should  hearts,   once  warm,  grow  cold? 

And  why  should  sighs  for  feelings  gone, 
Make  up   our  breath  when  old? 

'Tis   true,   the   happy   light   that   fell 

On   board   and   hearth,    of  yore, 
Went  out  when  evening's  tyrant  bell, 

The    Curfew's    warning   bore. 

But  oh !  it  is  not  thus  the  heart 

Should  hear  the  voice  of  time; 
Not  thus  its  cheerful  light  depart 

At   sound  of   evening's   chime ! 

For  me,   kind   fate !    forbid   that   e'er 

That  dismal  tocsin  toll, 
In  whose  sad  discord  I  shall  hear 

The    curfew    of    the   soul ! 


260  HOWARD  WEEDEN 


HOWARD  WEEDEN 

(Alabama:  18 ) 

MAMMY'S  LULLABY 

"  SWING   low,    sweet    Chariot,"    low   enough 

To  give  some  heavenly  rest 
To  dis  poor  restless  little  one 

Dat  sobs  on  Mammy's  breast. 

"  Swing  low,  sweet  Chariot,"  wid  your  load 

Of  angels  snowy  drest, 
And  thow  a  dream  out  to  de  chile 

'Most  sleep  on  Mammy's  breast. 

"  Swing  low,  sweet  Chariot,"  so  dat  She 

May  look  into  de  nest, 
An'  see  how  sound  her  baby  sleeps 

At  last, —  on  Mammy's  breast ! 

THE  OLD  BOATMAN 

I  CHANGED  my  name,  when  I  got  free, 

To  "Mister"  like  the  res', 
But  now  dat  I  am  going  Home, 

I  like  de  ol'  name  bes'. 


HOWARD  WEEDEN  261 

Sweet   voices    callin'    "  Uncle    Rome/' 

Seem  ringin'  in  my  ears ; 
An'  swearin'  sort  o'  sociable, 

Ol'  Master's  voice  I  hears. 

De  way  he  used  to  call  his  boat, 

Across  de  river :  "  Rome  ! 
You  damn  ol'  nigger,  come  an'  bring 

Dat  boat,  an'  row  me  home !  " 

He's  passed  Heaven's  River  now,  an'  soon 

He'll  call  across  its  foam: 
"  You,  Rome,  you  damn  ol'  nigger,  loose 

Your  boat,  an'  come  on  Home ! " 


TWO  LOVERS  AND  LIZETTE 

WHO,  me?  in  love,  an'  wid  Lizette? 

You  better  b'lieve  I  ain't; 
No  sassy  gal  like  dat  could  give 

Dis  nigger  heart-complaint. 

If  Gord  don't  love  her  more  den  I, 

Den  all  I  got  to  say 
Is,  dat  her  soul's  in  danger  sho', 

An'  she  had  better  pray ! 


262  HOWARD  WEEDEN 

It's  her,  dat  is  in  love  wid  me; 

An'  I  jes  laughs  an'  tell  her, 
"  De  fruit  dat  drops  d'out  bein'  shook 

Is  sho'  to  be  too  meller !  " 

But  all  de  same,  you  talks  too  much 
To  suit  me,  'bout  Lizette: 

Some  gent'man's  nigger  gwine  get  hurt 
About  dat  same  gal  yet! 


AMELIA  COPPUCK  WELBY  263 


AMELIA  COPPUCK  WELBY 

(Maryland:  1819-1852) 

TWILIGHT  AT  SEA 

THE  twilight  hours  like  birds  flew  by, 

As  lightly  and  as  free; 
Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

Ten  thousand  on  the  sea; 
For  every  wave,  with  dimpled  face, 

That  leaped  upon  the  air, 
Had  caught  a  star  in  its  embrace 

And  held  it  trembling  there. 


264  JOHN  ALLAN  WYETH 


JOHN  ALLAN  WYETH 

(Alabama:  1845 ) 

MY  SWEETHEART'S  FACE 

MY  kingdom  is  my  sweetheart's  face, 
And  these  the  boundaries  I  trace: 
Northward  her   forehead  fair; 
Beyond  a  wilderness  of  auburn  hair; 
A   rosy    cheek   to   east   and   west; 

Her  little  mouth, 

The  sunny  south, 
It  is  the  south  that  I  love  best. 

Her  eyes,  two  crystal  lakes, 

Rippling  with  light, 
Caught  from  the  sun  by  day, 

The  stars  by  night. 

The  dimples  in 

Her  cheeks  and  chin 
Are  snares  which  Love  hath  set, — 

And  I  have  fallen  in! 


JOHN  ALLAN  WYETH  265 

TO  .MY  MOTHER 

DEAL  gently  with  her,  Time !  these  many  years 

Of  life  have  brought  more  smiles  with  them  than  tears. 

Lay  not  thy  hand  too  harshly  on  her  now, 

But  trace  decline  so  slowly  on  her  brow 

That    (like  a  sunset  of  the  northern  clime, 

Where  twilight  lingers  in  the  summer  time, 

And  fades  at  last  into  the  silent  night, 

Ere  one  may  note  the  passing  of  the  light) 

So  may  she  pass  —  since  'tis  the  common  lot  — 

As  one  who,  resting,  sleeps,  and  knows  it  not. 


266  MARTHA  YOUNG 


MARTHA  YOUNG 

(Alabama:  18 ) 

GOD'S  LFL'  JEWELRY 

WHO  done  tangle  up  Mammy's  yarn, 
Playin'  cat's-cradle  by  de  ole  barn  — 
Makin'  crow's-foot  and  eyes  and  mo' — 
Mangle  de  thread  so  Mam'  can't  sew? 
(Bless  dat  chile! 

Laughin'  at  Mammy  all  de  while  —  ) 
God  ain't  made  no  whiter  pearl 
Dan  yo'  teef,  my  liT  girl, 
Mostes'  precious  thing  to  me  — 
My  chile  's  God's  LiT  Jewelry. 

Who  dat  took  Mammy's  thimble  now? 

Been  cuttin'  biscuits,  I  allow; 

Nice  liT  biscuits  for  us  to  eat; 

Dat  chile's  cookin'  taste  mighty  sweet. 
(Bless  dat  chile! 
Peepin'  at  Mammy  all  de  while.) 
God  ain't  got  no  turquoise  blue 
Deeper'n  dese  eyes.     My  Honey,  you 
Cost'est  thing  round  here  I  see  — 
What  cost  mo'n  God's  Jewelry? 


MARTHA  YOUNG  267 

Done  took  Mam's  handk'cher,  what  you  think? 
De  while  I's  takin'  forty  wink; 
Made  a  swing  out  it  on  dat  tree, 
Mam's  keys  rockin',  like  dolls,  I  see. 

(I  be  boun' ! 

Best  not  drap  noddin',  she  aroun'!) 

God  ain't  paint  no  ruby  red 

As  dis  baby's  lips  foresaid  — 

What  my  liT  girl  'd  ruther  be 

Dan  des  God's  LiT  Jewelry? 

Who  dat  pick  up  Mammy's  ole  shoe? 
Made  a  boat  out  it  —  hew-ew-whew  ! 
Dar  in  de  washtub  floatin'  roun' ! 
Mistifis  chile,  I  do  be  boun' — 

(Bless  de  chile! 

Curls  all  wet  up  now  dis  while.) 

God  ain't  got  no  shinin'  gole 

Brighter  'n  dis  chile's  hair  do  hoi'. 

Babe,  you's  des  clean  heavenly, 

'Caze  you's  God's  LiT  Jewelry. 

Now  what  you  done  wid  Mammy's  'specs? 
Lawsy  me !     What'll  you  do  nex'  ? 
Yoked  de  kittens  wid  Mammy's  specs ! 
Dat's  mos'  enough  to  git  me  vex.' 
(Bless   dis   chile! 


268  MARTHA  YOUNG 

A-kissin'  Mammy  all  dis  while.) 
God  ain't  got  no  diamond  dye 
Brighter'n  light  of  dis  chile's  eye. 
Yas;  dem  angels  done  agree 
Dat  you  is  God's  Jewelry. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 

PAGE 

Adrift    Morris  133 

"  Ah,  Si  Jeunesse  Savait !"  A.  C.  Gordon    58 

Angel  Unaware,  The   Preston  202 

Annabel    Lee    Poe  159 

As  Some  Mysterious  Wanderer  of  the  Skies. ..  .Stockard  224 

At  Anchor  W.  H.  Hayne    76 

At  Magnolia   Cemetery   ' . .  Timrod  239 

At  the  Ninth  Hour    Scalding  219 

Attributes  Cawein    31 

Autumn  Breeze,  An W.  H.  Hayne    77 

Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master,  A Lanier    96 

Beautiful-Bosomed,  O  Night  Cawein    32 

Before  the  Rain    Troubetzkoy  245 

Bells,   The    Poe  170 

Bessie   Brown,   M.D Peck  146 

Bivouac  of  the  Dead,  The  O'Hara  138 

Bridal   Ballad    Poe  161 

Bride,    The    McNeill  1 19 

Bubble,   The    Tabb  230 

By  the  Grave  of  Henry  Timrod P.  H.  Hayne    70 

Cavalier's  Serenade,   The   Bradenbaugh    28 

Childless     Morris  133 

Christmas   Hymn,  A   McNeill  1 16 

City  in  the   Sea,  The   Poe  17. 

Closing  Year,  The   Prentice  ioj 

Comparison,  A    P.  H.  Hayne    68 

Condemned,  The   Howland    86 

Conquered  Banner,  The Ryan  212 

Conqueror   Worm,    The    Poe  177 

Cradle-Song,    A    Tabb  226 

Curfew,   The    Wallis  259 

Cyclone  at  Sea,  A  W.  H.  Hayne    76 

Dawn    McNeill  118 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


PAGE 

Dead  Moon,  The   Dandridge    43 

Death's   Grand  Avenue    Sp aiding  220 

Dej  ection     Waliis  257 

Dollie    Peck  148 

Dream  Within  a  Dream,  A   Poe  158 

Drifting   Petal,   A    Fenollosa    51 

Druid,    The    Tabb  230 

Duty    Hubner    89 

Edgar  Allan   Poe  Bruce  30 

Enise   A.  C.  Gordon  60 

Evening  Song,'  An  Lanier  97 

Exiles   W.  H.  Hayne  77 

Fairy  Camp,  The   Dandridge    46 

Fame Hubner    90 

Fern    Song    Tabb  227 

Few  Days  Off,  A   McNeill  117 

Flood-Tide     Preston  202 

For  Annie   Poe  162 

Four  Feet  on  a  Fender  A.  C.  Gordon    62 

Gather  Leaves  and  Grasses   Boner    23 

God's   Li'l   Jewelry    Young  266 

Gossips,   The    Crockett    38 

Grapevine  Swing,   The    Peck  151 

Haunted   Palace,  The    Poe  178 

Health,   A    Pinkney  155 

High  Tide  at  Gettysburg,  The   Thompson  232 

Hymn     Timrod  240 

Hymn  to  Spiritual  Desire    Cawein    34 

I'm  Growing  Old    Hubner    88 

In  a  King-Cambyses  Vein Sass  216 

Israel     Morris  136 

Israfel    Poe  166 

Keats    Tabb  227 

Last   Night,   The    Dandridge    46 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  271 


PAGE 

Last  Night  at  Appomattox,  The  Page  142 

Lenore    Poe  168 

Lillian's    Fan    Peck  149 

Little   Elaine    Stanton  223 

Little   Giffen    Ticknor  236 

Little  While  I  Fain  Would  Linger  Yet,  A.  .P.  H.  Hayne    68 

Lorraine    /.   L.    Gordon    65 

Lovely  Peggy   Jefferson    92 

Magdalen    Tabb  228 

Mammy's  Lullaby   Weeden  260 

Marshes  of  Glynn,   The    Lanier  108 

Miyoko    San    Fenollosa    52 

Mocking-Bird,   The   P.  H.  Hayne    74 

Mood,    A    Troubetzkoy  244 

Moon-Loved   Land,   The    Boner    25 

My    Maryland    Randall  205 

My  Study   P.  H.  Hayne    74 

My  Sweetheart's  Face   Wyeth  264 

October   in   Tennessee    Malone  126 

O'erspent    Tabb  229 

Old  Boatman,  The   Weeden  260 

Old    Photograph,   An    Fenollosa    51 

On  a  Bust  of  Mendelssohn W.  H.  Hayne    78 

On  the  Forthcoming  Volume  of  Sidney  Lanier's   Poems 

Tabb  229 

Opportunity    Malone  127 

Origin  of  the  Banjo   Russell  209 

Orion    Crockett    37 

Plaint  of  the  Rose,  The  Tabb  231 

Poem,  for  the  unveiling  of  the  bust  of  Sidney  Lanier,  at 

Macon,  Ga.,  October  17,  1890 W.  H.  Hayne    78 

Praise  of  Men,  The   Spalding  220 

Rattlesnake,  The McNeill  120 

Raven,    The    Poe  180 

Remembrance    Boner    24 

Remembrance    Morris  137 

Rhone  and  the  Arve,  The   Tucker  248 


272  INDEX  OF  TITLES 


PAGE 

Said   the    Rose    Miles  129 

Scandal   W.  H.  Hayne    80 

Serenade,  The Pinkney  157 

Shakespeare     Stockard  224 

Sleeper,  The Poe  188 

Solitude    Tabb  229 

Song  of  the  Chattahoochee Lanier    97 

Sonnet    P.    H.    Hayne    73 

Sonnet,  A   Troubetzkoy  247 

Sonnets    Timrod  241 

Spirit  of  Morning,  The  Spalding  221 

Starry  Host,   The    Spalding  222 

Star-Spangled   Banner,  The    Key    94 

Stonewall  Jackson's  Way    Palmer  143 

Sunrise    Lanier    99 

Sunrise  on  the  Hills  of  Satsuma  Fenollosa    53 

Sweet  Little  Fool,  The   Boner    26 

Sword  in  the  Sea,  The   Ticknor  237 

Sword  of  Robert  Lee,  The  Ryan  214 

That  Little  Chap  of  Mine Morris  135 

Three  Summer  Studies   Hope    82 

To   a   Lily    Legare  114 

To  Helen   Poe  192 

To  My  Mother  Wyeth  265 

To  One  in   Paradise Poe  192 

Trifles     McNeitt  122 

Twilight  at   Sea   Welby  263 

Twilight  in  the  Woods Dan  d  ridge    48 

Two  Lovers   and  Lizette    Weedcn  261 

Two  Pictures McNeill  124 

Ulalume    Poe  193 

Unborn,    The    Finch    55 

Valentine McNeill  123 

Valley  of  Unrest,  The Poe  191 

We   Two    Preston  204 

When  We  Were  Twenty-One  Huber    90 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  278 


PAGE 

Wife,    The    McNeill  121 

Wind,    The    Crockett    41 

Witch  in  the  Glass,  The   Piatt  154 

World,  The    Hubner    Sg 

Worship Crockett    41 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Abroad  on  the  landscape  pale  and  cold,  202. 

A  cloud  possessed  the  hollow  field,  232'. 

A  golden  pallor  of  voluptuous  light,  74. 

Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl !  the  spirit  flown  forever !  168. 

Ah!  how  she  trembles  when  the  night  is  long,  46. 

Ah,  painful-sweet!  how  can  I  take  it  in!  204. 

Ah  why,  when  life's  dim  eve  comes  on,  259. 

A  little  while   (my  life  is  almost  set!),  68. 

Are  these  wild  thoughts,  thus  fettered  in  my  rhymes,  241. 

As  one  who  strays  from  out  some  shadowy  glade,  73. 

As  some  mysterious  wanderer  of  the  skies,  224. 

A  throat  of  thunder,  a  tameless  heart,  76. 

At  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June,  188. 

Beautiful-bosomed,  O   Night,  in  thy  moon,  32. 
Bonny  Lorraine,  have  you  forgot,  65. 

Cambyses,  King  of  the  Persians,  216. 

Can  they  ever  come  together,  249. 

Coiled  like  a  clod,  his  eyes  the  home  of  hate,  120. 

Come,  stack  arms,  men;  pile  on  the  rails,  143. 

Dance  to  the  beat  of  the  rain,  little  Fern,  227. 
Deal  gently  with  her,  Time !  these  many  years,  265. 
Dear,  do  not  dream  I  have  forgotten  thee,  137. 

Eli,  Eli,  lama  sabachthani?  219. 
Executor  of  God's  almighty  will !  89. 

Far  blacker  than  a  raven's  wings,  80. 
Far,  far  away,  beyond  a  hazy  height,  126. 
Forth  from  its  scabbard,  pure  and  bright,  214, 
Furl  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary,  212. 

Gather  leaves   and  grasses,  23. 

Glooms  of  the  life-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven,  108. 

Go  bow  thy  head  in  gentle  spite,  114. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  £75 


Godlike  beneath  his  grave  divinities,  230. 

Go  'way  fiddle!  folks  is  tired  o'  hearin'  you  a-squawkin',  209. 

Had  Youth  but  known  some  years  ago,  58. 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells,   170. 

He  heard  the  Voice  that  spake  arid,  unafraid,  224. 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me,   192. 

His  high-arched  brow  and  quiet  eyelids  seem,  78. 

Hopes  grimly  banished  from  the  heart,  77. 

How  many  a  time,  just  when  the  sun  up-glows,  221. 

I  ain't  gwine  a  work  till  my  dyin'  day,  117. 

I  am  weary  of  the  garden,   129. 

I  asked,  "  What  is  the  world  ?  "  and  you  replied,  89. 

I  changed  my  name,  when  I  got  free,  260. 

If  I,  athirst  by  a  stream,  should  kneel,  51. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up,  155. 

I  know  I'm  just  an  ordinary,  easy-goin'  cuss,  135. 

I'm  growing  old;  and  yet  no  fear,  88. 

In  Death's  dark  wood  two  cedars  stood,  38. 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell,   166. 

In  my  sleep  I  was  fain  of  their  fellowship,  fain,  99. 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys,  178. 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  went,  96. 

I   saw   the   daughters   of  the   Dawn   come   dancing   o'er   the 

hills,    31. 

Is  it  worth  while  to  barter  life  for  Fame?  90. 
I  think,  ofttimes,  that  lives  of  men  may  be,  68. 
I  think  that  we  retain  of  our  dead  friends,  24. 
It  is  anthracite  coal,  and  the  fender  is  low,  62*. 
It  is  good  to  strive  against  wind  and  rain,  244. 
It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago,  159. 
I  was  a  fool!  26. 

Little  fan,  of  fluff  and  pearl,  149. 

Lo!  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne,  175. 

Look  off,  dear  love,  across  the  sallow  sands,  97. 

Look  put  upon  the  stars,  my  love,  157. 

Lo!  'tis  a  gala  night,  177. 

Mother  of  visions,  with  lineaments  dulcet  as  numbers,  34. 


276  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


My  kingdom  is  my  sweetheart's  face,  264. 
My  love  was  like  a  buoyant  boat,  76. 
"  My  mother  says   I  must  not  pass,"   154. 
My  soul  is  as  a  fainting  noonday  star,  229. 

Near  where  the  shepherds  watched  by  night,   116. 

No  lovelier  song  was  ever  heard,  25. 

Not  where  men  congregate  to  talk  of  God,  41. 

Oh  God !  to  see  the  swelling  stream,  257. 

Oh !  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light,  96. 

Once  it  smiled  a  silent  dell,   191. 

Once  more  I'll  tune  the  vocal  shell,  92. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,   while   I  pondered,  weak  and 

weary,   180. 

One  sits  in  soft  light,  where  the  hearth  is  warm,  124. 
Out  from'  its  casket  of  pungent  calf,  51. 
Out  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire,  236. 
Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham,  97. 

Read  me  no  moral,  priest,  upon  my  life,  86. 

Said  the  budding  Rose,   "All  night,"   2-30. 

"  She  hath  done  what  she  could,"  228. 

She   sports   a   witching   gown,    148. 

She  stands  among  the  nations  of  the  earth,  135. 

Sing  it,  Mother!  sing  it  low,  226. 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves,  240. 

Snare  me  the  soul  of  a  dragon-fly,  51. 

Snow  !  Snow !  Snow !  229. 

Sometimes,  when  after  years  of  vain  regret,   133. 

"  Swing  low,  sweet  Chariot,"  low  enough,  260. 

Take  all  of  me, —  I  am  thine  own,  heart,  soul,  247. 

Take  this  kiss  upon  the  brow !   158. 

Thank  Heaven !  the  crisis,  162. 

The  billows  plunge   like   steeds   that  bear,  2'37- 

The  blackcaps  pipe  among  the  reeds,  245. 

The  cock  hath  crowed.     I  hear  the  doors  unbarr'd,  82. 

The  countless  stars,  which  to  our  human  eye,  222. 

The  day  unfolds  like  a  lotus  bloom,  53. 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore,  205. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  277 


The  heavens  shall  grow  old ;  be  cast  aside,  220. 

The  hills  again  reach  skyward  with  a  smile,  118. 

The  hour  for  praise  has  come  again,  48. 

The  little  white  bride  is  left  alone,  119. 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat,  138. 

The  ring  is  on  my  hand,  161. 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober,  193. 

The  sleeping  echoes  of  her  quiet  room,   133. 

The  splendor  of   Silence, —  of  snow-jeweled  hills  and  of  ice, 

37-  . 

The  twilight  hours  like  birds  flew  by,  263. 
The  way  of  the  wind  is  a  strange,  wild  way,  41. 
They  do  me  wrong  who  say  I  come  no  more,  127. 
They  locked  him  in  a  prison  cell,  121. 
This  gentle  and  half  melancholy  breeze,  77. 
This  is  my  world !  within  these  narrow  walls,  74. 
This  is  the  time  for  birds  to  mate,  123. 
Thou  art  my  very  own,  55. 
Thou  wast  all  that  to  me,  love,  192. 
Thou  wast  to  me  what  to  the  changing  year,  229. 
Time  weighs  the  destinies  that  men  befall,  30. 
'Tis    midnight's   holy   hour  —    and    silence   now,    198. 
To  every  artist,  howsoe'er  his  thought,  202. 
'Twas  April  when  she  came  to  town,   146. 

Unveil  the  noble  brow,  the  deep-souled  eyes,  78. 
Upon  thy  tomb  'tis  graven,  "  Here  lies  one,"  227. 

Very  fair  you  are,  Enise,  60. 

We  are  ghost-ridden,  43. 

West  —  ebbing  day,   142. 

What  did  I  see  in  the  woods  to-day?  46. 

What  shall  I  bring  you,  sweet !  122'. 

When  I  was  a  boy  on  the  old  plantation,  151. 

When  last  we  parted  —  thy  frail  hand  in  mine,  70. 

When  we  were  twenty-one,  O  Life,  90. 

Where  have  you  gone,  little  Elaine,  223. 

Who  done  tangle  up  Mammy's  yarn,  266. 

Who,  me?  in  love,  an'  wid  Lizette?  261. 

Whose  was  the  hand  that  painted  thee,  O  Death !  239. 


278  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


Why  should  I  stay?     Nor  seed  nor  fruit  have  I,  230. 
Why  wish  that  men  should  praise  me  when  I'm  dead?  220. 

Yon  silent  star  his  flashing  shield,  28. 


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